


Lady In Red

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: First Person, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 130
Words: 321,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original story following the trials and tribulations of Elizabeth Nelson, a hopeful young activist who finds herself at the heart of British politics. However, the lies and dangerous faces that come hand in hand with power begin to tear everything she has worked for away.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to point out that the main character in this, Elizabeth, isn't one you're necessarily going to like. I didn't want to play the stereotypical 'poor girl who works her way up' line. It's far too overused, in my opinion. I didn't want all the wealthy people in this story (there are a lot of them) to be stereotypically selfish or arrogant, either.

**_Friday 17th July 1988_ **

**_Fenton House, London._ **

Most sixteen year old girls are attending parties at this time, my mother told me. Nothing like the party I'm attending, I had argued. Whilst my peers danced freely and sang along to the likes of Queen and David Bowie, I was stuck here, in a stuffy stately home filled with gentle conversation and the subtle plucking of a string quartet. Aunt Jayne had insisted on forcing me into one of her old evening gowns. She is shorter and wider than me, and so it wasn't exactly a perfect fit. None the less, she was still pleased with herself. It brought out my hair, she had said, which falls to my shoulders in neat red curls. Once I'd learnt how to breathe again (Aunt Jayne believed fastening the dress as tightly as possible would compensate for it being several sizes too big), my little sister, Helena, two yea my junior, pounced into the room spraying her newest bottle of perfume with great vigour. I'm convinced that anyone who now tries to approach me for a conversation will find themselves close to intoxication. Helena always did like to go too far.

"Do at least try and smile, Liz" my mother said as I made my steady descent down the long, winding stairs of Fenton House, "One of us needs to enjoy this evening". I smile at her and sigh. "Why do you let father drag you along to these things?" I ask. My mother jerks her head as if unsure of the answer. "Someone needs to make sure he doesn't drink himself into a coma" she grins, and I grin back. What I hate most about the staircase of Fenton House is not the excessive volume of steps, or the flimsy banisters that feel as though they bend under your palm. It is the simple fact that anyone who walks down them  stared at by the dozens of guests standing below. If I were to trip in this moment, any chance I had of been taken seriously by anyone at this God forsaken party will be gone. They all watch me like birds of prey, eyes as cold and dead as a shark's. My mother touches my forearm briefly, and gives me one of her usual reassuring smiles. I take a deep breath and raise my head. I may as well make an effort, I suppose.

"Mrs Nelson!" The Duke of Westminster cries, taking my mother's hand in his own the moment her feet have left the final stair, "Delightful to see you again. You are looking as beautiful as ever". Mother rolled her eyes as he kissed her hand. "You never give up do you, Gerald?" she laughed, "How are your daughters?". The Duke released her hand and smiled cheerfully. I could only stand quietly, twiddling my thumbs. I had little interest in the family affairs of the aristocracy. "In good health" Gerald said proudly, slipping a hand into the hand of his waistcoat as though trying to present himself as some Napoleon-like figure, "Speaking of daughters". Then suddenly his eyes were on me. 

"So this is Elizabeth?" he asked, offering his hand. I hesitated, but, after a quick glare from my mother, accepted it. The body position of the Duke indicated he wanted to kiss my hand. I wasn't having that. Instead I made sure he could only shake it. None of my male counterparts had to endure the feeling of alcohol-scented saliva on their skin, so why should I?

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace" I say politely, withdrawing my hand as swiftly as courtesy allowed. Gerald looks me up and down and smiled. "My, my, you are a charming thing" he comments, "Beauty to rival even your mother's. And a delightful accent, I might add. Much softer than your father's, that's for sure". He chuckles heartily at nothing in particular and waddles away, glass in hand. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I lean close to Mother. "Christ Almighty, do I really have to endure another hour and a half of this?" I ask through gritted teeth. The grand hall we now find ourselves walking towards is teeming with Dukes of Westminster, and indeed Duchesses of Westminster. I'll relish the day when I don't have to go to zoos like this. That's all it is; a zoo.

"Don't blaspheme, dear" my mother corrected, "There are thousands of sixteen year old girls like yourself who would sell a kidney to attend something as grand as this. Few know such privilege, you know that". I nod and sigh quietly. I've always been very much aware of how lucky I've been. During my days in Scotland particularly, I saw on a daily basis what life was like for the poorest in society. I have a strong desire to help people, to lift them out their troubles and towards their true potential. "I hear Geoffrey Howe is about here tonight" Mother states, a small smile forming on her lips. I narrow my eyes, glancing about the hall hoping to catch a glimpse of those unnecessarily large spectacles of his. "I hope you're right" I tell her, my eyebrows furrowing of their own accord, "The last time I went to one of these things, I ended up having a debate with Norman Tebbit about the euro. I should like to argue my way through the entire Cabinet". Mother smiles. 

"Then off you go" she spoke quietly. I nod to her and leave her side. I know have the motivation I need to get me through the evening. I'm surrounded by Conservatives. The rich always tend to be Tories, I've found. Either that or champagne socialists. I tend to class myself as neither. I see myself as a progressive, a moderate. I've always found fault with both the right and the left. My father, Douglas, has been a supporter of Margaret Thatcher for as long as I can remember. Hence the reason why I keep my copy of the 1987 Labour Party manifesto hidden. I'm not ashamed, just somewhat insistent on having a roof over my head. I went to conference last year, after the Party lost the general election. Neil Kinnock is never going to be prime minister. That much I know. I did meet some like me, like that charming man Mr Brown. He was Scottish too. As was his equally charming friend, John Smith. Such lovely people. I'd never be so welcome at a Conservative Party conference.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I find myself playing the piano in the lounge. I'd had a glass of champagne and done my best to mix in with my fellow guests. A conversation with a lady named Lindsey, the daughter of a stockbroker I'm told, turned to music. I said I knew how to play the piano, and now here we are. "Any requests, gentlemen?" Lindsey had asked cheerily, facing the room, which was mostly occupied by men. "Moonlight Sonata!" one had called out. I wondered at the time whether he had said it sarcastically, as if doubting that I was capable. It had been a while since I had played any Beethoven, but I was ready for the challenge. It was a long piece, and I was pleased that so many stood by, listening quietly. I kept my eyes on the keys. I knew my away around a piano well, but was still worried that I would mess the piece up. My hands glide across black and white, ivory cool on the tips of my fingers.

I played the final note, and people clapped. I lean back on the stool and stretch my fingers. They ached slightly from the speed at which I had played, but it was tolerable. "Bravo" Lindsey says, linking arms with me as I stood, "Most impressive, Elizabeth". I was unsure why it was she had decided to attach herself to me, but I let her continue nonetheless.

"Thank you" I reply, eyes still searching for Geoffrey Howe. I had become somewhat distracted from my mission and Lindsey was sure to slow me down. What, with her pompous drivelling about designer shoes amongst other mundane topics. "He's a handsome one" I hear her say. I roll my eyes and glance over to where it is she's looking. Leaning against the door frame of the lounge is my elder brother. I see him nod to me, and so politely I try to detach myself from Lindsey's grasp. "Aren't you going to give us another song?" my brother smirks as I walk up to him. I'm tempted to knock his drink over his shirt in childlike spite.

"Do shut up, Nevin" I joke. We leave the lounge together and slowly begin to walk about the rest of the house. It's a big old place, but wherever we turn there are still masses of men and women gathered together giggling away at the silliest things. "Have you seen Helena?" I ask curiously. I hadn't seen my little sister since her attempt to gas me with perfume. "She's in the hall drooling over some army fellow" Nevin says disapprovingly, "Honestly. The _English_ ". I'm not sure whether he's talking about Helena's soldier or the other guests in general. "We've been in England for four years" I remind him regardless, "It isn't as though you'd see any different in Scotland". Nevin jerks his head and sighs. I had very little patience with the aristocracy, but my brother seemed to hold a real contempt for the lot of them. "It's moments like this that make me want to go nationalist" he says, and again I'm unsure of the real meaning of his words. "Don't let father hear you say that" I laugh. Nevin suddenly straightens himself up. I do the same instinctively. "Speaking of the Devil" I add quietly.

Sir Douglas Nelson, a businessman hailing from the Highlands, is a man of small stature with red hair, like mine, and a thick mustache running along his upper lip. Like most other men at this party, he is dressed in black suit and tie. Having been a smoker for most of his life, his voice is deep and gruff. I've always been of the opinion that his voice doesn't at all fit it's casing. My father is one of the few 'true blue' Conservatives whom I enjoy spending time with. He's talking with a lanky, balding man as Nevin and I approach. "Here they are" he says, turning his head just as we're about to introduce ourselves, "I've been looking for you two. Your mother's deserted me".

"I'd imagine she's probably tired of hearing about shares, Father" Nevin jokes.

"Sounds about right. No taste, that woman" Father chuckles, his cheeks glowing as brightly as ever. Nevin lifts an eyebrow.

"I suppose that's why she married you" he quipped, earning a laugh from the lanky gentleman standing near. Father gives Nevin a tiny slap on the arm and tuts.

"You watch it, you" he says, but I know he's only joking. He turns to the stranger and claps him on the arm. I feel as though I recognise him, but can't place a name.

"This is Sir Peter. He owns Osborne and Little" Father says, introducing the man to us, "You know the new wallpaper we've got in the hallway? It's his company who made it". Father laughs, as though what he had just said was worthy of such a reaction. I smile awkwardly and step forward to shake Sir Peter's hand. "A pleasure to meet you, sir" I say politely. "Likewise" he replies, returning my smile before turning to Nevin.

"Nevin, I presume?" he asks, shaking my brother's hand, "Your father tells me you're currently studying at Oxford". Nevin nods proudly and slips a hand into his pocket. He always did that when he was trying to look important. "I am indeed" he tells Peter, "Economics and Management". Mr Osborne looks impressed.

"A good choice" he comments, "If ever you need somewhere to go while you're waiting for your father here to give it up, let me know. We need bright young men like you". Nevin smiles appreciatively and seems to consider it for a moment. Why is Sir Peter not talking to me about this? Has my father only talked about Nevin? I can't help but feel slightly frustrated. Part of me wants to assume that it is simply because I'm a woman, but I do my best to brush that side of my character away as swiftly as possible. "I assume Oxford is to be a family tradition" Sir Peter says, eyes suddenly falling on me. I hesitate for a moment, as if still unsure if he actually wants to talk to me.

"I hope so" I say, "My college studies seem to be going well at the moment, so I think I may be in with a chance". Peter smiles and clicks his fingers as though suddenly remembering something important. "My eldest son is about your age. He's at college too" he says, "Ah, there he is! George!". He barks his son's name to an area a few metres away. I doubt where this 'George' will be able to hear his father over the hubbub of the party, but nonetheless he comes running. A few moments later a young man, not quite as tall but just as lanky, is standing in front of me. He has thick, dark hair and even darker eyes. To me he seems somewhat awkward, shy perhaps. There is certainly something oddly endearing about him, though. "Elizabeth" I say, offering my hand to him. The boy blinks at me, before taking it and giving it a feeble shake. His hands fall to his sides the moment I withdraw my own. "George" he replies, smiling shyly. Before I can say anything else, my Father is ushering us away.

"Why don't the two of you go and get to know one another" he says, with Sir Peter nodding in agreement, "Go and talk about whatever it is you teenagers talk about these days". I wasn't at all interested in this boy's tastes in music, or which actors he had the biggest crushes on. I hoped that he, like me, would have at least a vague interest in the politics of the day. I also hoped that he, like me, would be a Labour supporter. It was highly unlikely. This George fellow was almost definitely a Tory, my brain already decided. "Well, even my own father doesn't want me around" I start, wanting to start a conversation of some sorts. George relaxed a little and nodded.

"I know the feeling" he says, "I heard someone mention Oxford before I came over". I couldn't help but smile. He actually wanted to talk about something of substance, rather than a load of dribble about popular culture. Maybe he and I were going to get along better than I had first judged. "Yes, I'm hoping to go there once I've finished college" I inform him, "My father went there, so I fail to see why I shouldn't".

"So, you think you've got the brains for it, do you?" George comments, raising an eyebrow. I know he was just messing around, and so I don't snap at him. Instead I laugh and raise my head just that little bit higher. "I know I do" I tell him sarcastically, "My Physics tutor told me I'm the brightest young lady who's ever been to Carfax". George chuckles lightly and raised his eyebrow again. He is definitely much more at ease now, walking alongside me with his hands behind his back. The gawky, awkward boy I had met just moments before was gone already. I was quite tempted to introduce myself once more. "Carfax?" George repeats, "That's in Oxford".

"It is. I don't live in London, you see" I tell him, "I'm presuming you do?". George nods down at me.

"Paddington" he speaks, dark eyes momentarily looking about the other guests before moving back down to my face once again, "I suppose I'll have further to travel than you when I get to Oxford". This time it is I who raises an eyebrow.

"Now who's getting cocky?" I joke, "What do you want to do in life, George?". He falls silent for a moment and narrows his eyes. I watch the pensive expression on his face. I couldn't quite place him in terms of possible careers. He didn't look like a doctor, nor a teacher of any kind. He answers my question before my thoughts can continue. "I'm not quite decided" George says, "I've always had an interest in journalism, but then-". He cut himself off and bit his lip. I narrow my eyes.

"But what?" I ask. George stops walking for a moment and shifts his eyes about the room.

"You'll think I'm silly" he says quietly. I laugh and link arms with him, forcing him to continue walking. It's something I rarely do, but I'm too intrigued to care.

"I won't" I reassure him, dying to know what it is he's so ashamed of admitting. George sighs and finally spits it out.

"I also, in a way, want to be a...politician" he says. A giggle escapes my mouth. George looks slightly disheartened by my reaction, but I hadn't laughed because I'd found it funny, I'd laughed because it was exactly what I wanted to do. "Then I suppose we'll probably end up seeing a lot more of each other" I smile. George looks blankly at me, before returning my smile brightly. A look of relief washes over him, and all of sudden the confident young Mr Osborne is back. He pauses as we pass a door out into the gardens of the Fenton estate. "I could do with a breath of fresh air" he said, opening it, "Care to join me?". Behind me I can hear the Duke of Westminster laughing like a drunken pirate, whilst everyone else around me continues to ramble on about things of no importance. I glance back, before looking to George and nodding. "Yes" I say, "Why not".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George Osborne/Orignal Character. Frickin' new stuff right there :') If you have any thoughts leave me a comment. This is literally just something that popped into my head. I don't really see this as being a love story, but I thought it'd be important to get George & Elizabeth's first meeting out the way first so later events will make sense. Oh yeah, and there's probably going to be a lot of jumping backwards and forwards in time. I'll state when and where each chapter is based, of course :') Have a nice day


	2. First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast forward a few years, and Elizabeth's first day at Parliament as an MP has finally come.

**20th June, 1992.**

**Westminster, London.**

"MICHAEL HESELTINE, CONSERVATIVE" the returning officer shouts, "20,283". I shift my feet on the stage. My hands are clammy, but cold. I clasp them together and gulp. I couldn't help but feel nervous. I was just a twenty year old Oxford undergraduate who happened to have been picked by her local Labour Party. Even they knew I didn't stand a chance against Heseltine. Whilst it had been my dream defeat him for many years, I knew it was not one that would come true. And so, wanting to suffer an honourable defeat at least, I hold my head high and smile down at the many cameras waiting to capture the result. "ELIZABETH NELSON, LABOUR" the returning officer continues. I'm going to be sick. Fuck going down gracefully; I can feel my stomach flipping at a rate of knots. I keep my breathing steady. I'd never get to Parliament if I vomited allover the press the first time I stood for election. And then something strange happens. "20,991". There is a moment of silence as everyone in the town hall blinks. Then comes a deafening roar from the Labour crowd. Even the Liberal Democrats are high-fiving themselves. I stare at the other end of the hall blankly, my eyes completely void of emotion. To my right I hear a thud, and for a moment I think that perhaps Michael Heseltine has fainted. If I had, I was sure to follow suit. "And so I now declare Elizabeth Nelson the new Member of Parliament for Henley" the returning officer finishes, stepping back from the podium and joining in with the applause that now filled the hall. Giddily, I walk forward. I grasp the podium with shaky hands and clear my throat. The hall falls silent.

"Bloody hell" is the first thing I manage to say, prompting laughter from many onlookers, "Forgive me, it's just that, well, I didn't think I was going to win". Again, people chuckled. I clear my throat and shake myself. Confidence, Elizabeth, confidence. You're their new MP. Shit, _you're their new MP_. I open my mouth again to thank the returning officer, but the only sound that escapes my lips is a strange, metallic _bleep_. _Bleep_. It got louder each time I tried to say something. _Bleep_. _Bleep_. _Bleep_.

It's my alarm. I was all a dream, a memory of last week's events. And now I'm awake. I open my eyes and find myself looking up at a plain, white ceiling. It's fairly cold in the bedroom, a cool breeze sliding under the sheets and tickling my bare feet. I shiver and stretch my limbs out wide. Then, once I feel I can be bothered, I turn my alarm off and climb out of bed. For some bizarre reason, the bedroom window is open. The cocktail of noises that fills London is amplified, and is coupled with the less than savoury smell of the Thames. I could probably do with the fresh air to wake me up a bit, but instead I shut the window firmly. The noise stirs the man having a shave in the bathroom. "Did you just shut the window?" he calls. I yawn and nod, forgetting momentarily that he can't actually see me. "Yes" I tell him, slipping my dressing gown on to find a bit of warmth, "It's far too cold".

"I only opened it to try and get rid of the smell" he explains. I chuckle under my breath and fold my arms.

"The smell of your cooking, you mean?" I query. Moments later, a friendly face pops around the door of the bathroom. Half of his face is covered with shaving foam, and his hair is sticking up in several directions. He's still as adorable ever, though, with those bright brown eyes and the shy smile I had been introduced to four years ago. "Well, excuse you" George corrects me, waving his razor at me accusingly, "If you hadn't of spilled red wine over the cookbook, maybe I'd of been able to read the instructions properly". I scoff at that. I seem to remember a completely different sequence of events. "I think you'll find it was you who spilled that wine" I remind him. George raises an eyebrow.

"Arguing already. And you haven't even got to the bloody place yet" he says, disappearing into the bathroom once again, "Major is going to love you". I smile to myself and glance in the mirror. I straighten my posture and lift my head up. In a few hours I will be sat in the House of Commons, the very place I had dreamed of getting to ever since I was fourteen years old. Gordon and John had promised to meet me outside the Palace to give me a tour of sorts, and to show me to my office. They said I'd be sharing with another new Labour MP. I forget his name. "Honestly" George says, walking into the bedroom wearing nothing but a shirt and his underwear, "While I'm filing through paperwork and making mundane phone calls, you'll be sat all cosy and warm in the Commons shouting at people". I smirk and perch myself down on the edge of the bed.

"Serves you right for becoming a Tory" I comment. George stops rummaging around in his wardrobe for a tie and looks at me with a blank expression. Suddenly he leaps across the room and pins me down to the bed. I scowl at him. "Are you going to move?" I ask. George grins down at me and shakes his head.

"No" he replies, leaning in for a kiss. I raise an eyebrow and pretend I'm about to meet him half way. And then, when his face is but inches from my own, I speak.

"Shame" I whisper, and, using what little strength I possess, shove him off me and get up from the bed. George rolls onto the other side of the bed, sprawled, his attire now even more crooked than it was before. He props himself up by his elbows and runs a hand through his hair. "Rude" he says, feigning annoyance. He can't keep up the act for long, though, as several seconds later, he's giving me one of his usual boyish grins. I wink at him and make my way into the bathroom to get ready. Before I shut the door, I call back to him. "Thanks".

* * *

"You didn't get lost then!" John Smith jokes, embracing me as I join him outside Westminster Palace. I make sure I hug him tightly to warm up a little. Ever since Labour Party conference in 1987, John had been a mentor of sorts to me. It was he who had recommended me as a candidate to the Oxfordshire Labour Party. Today is the 20th June, 1992. Less than a month ago, our party had suffered yet another defeat at the hands of the Conservatives. Though our number of seats had increased, it was still not enough. Neil Kinnock had resigned a few days after the result, and now John himself was thinking of standing for the leadership. I'd already decided that I would be backing him. "Looking forward to your first day?" John asks me brightly. I nod enthusiastically.

"Definitely" I tell him honestly, "I've been waiting for this for years". John nods and claps me on the back. Many other MPs are now walking past us and making their way inside. John turns to walk through the doors, but I wait. "I thought we were waiting for Gordon?" I ask. John chuckles quietly and puts a hand on my back, guiding me inside.

"He's a bit preoccupied at the moment" he explains, "He said he'd call by your office later". I frown for a moment but shrug. Gordon was a busy man, I suppose. I couldn't blame him one bit. I felt rather special strolling into the lobby of Westminster Palace side by side with the man who was, probably at least, going to be the leader of the Labour Party one day. Several Tories, recognisable by their dark blue ties, whispered as John went by. Perhaps they knew how much of a threat he was to John Major. I hoped they did. With John at the helm, I was already sure that we would win the next general election.

I follow John down many stone corridors and through countless passageways. I had anticipated how big this place really was. No doubt I would get lost at some point. I tried to remember the route as best as I could. My only hope was that my new office-mate would be a bit more canny than I was. Finally, John stopped at one of the many brown doors lining the dimly lit corridor we had been scooting along for what felt like an eternity. On the door were two small plaques. One had my name engraved into it- Elizabeth Nelson MP, whilst the other bore a name I had seen many times before. Peter Mandelson MP. I pushed the door open, clutching my briefcase to my side closely.

The office was small and dark, with one tiny window at the top of the far wall. The walls that were not covered by bookcases were covered with paintings and notices. A battered old couch had been shoved into the one corner, with a shabby armchair stuck opposite it. Two desks stood on opposite sides of the room, one already covered with papers and files, the other vacant. I presumed the vacant one to be mine, and so set my briefcase down onto it. John followed me in and sat down in the armchair. "It could have been a lot worse" he said, "My first office was about half the size of this one". I smile at him and sit back in my new chair. It creaked slightly, and I could feel the back wobbling, but none the less I took the opportunity to relax a bit. "What do you know about this Peter Mandelson fellow?" I ask, glancing curiously over at my colleague's desk opposite. John chuckled momentarily.

"He used to be our Director of Communications back in the 80s" he tells me, "He's a very clever man. I can't help but feel there's something slightly, well, _cunning_ about him, though. The way he stares at you sometimes. God, it's like he's plotting your death or something of the sort". I blink.

"And you want me to share an office with this man?" I ask. John stands up and shakes his head. That reassuring old smile of his is back, and suddenly I feel a lot better.

"You'll get along, I know you will" he insists, "You're very like-minded in a way. You want _change_ ". I knew exactly what John meant by that. Ever since my first meeting with him, I had complained about the left in the Party. I had always found I had very little time or patience for die-hard socialists and trade unions. They always seemed to get in the way, presuming that they had the right to do whatever it was they wanted. Thank God Neil had kicked the Trotskyites out in the 80s, I thought. However, with the defeat, and everyone feeling a bit sorry for themselves, the left were beginning to get restless again. People like myself and Gordon, and this Mandelson character if John's words are true, are considered to be modernisers. The phrase 'Red Tory' has been bandied about often, I can tell you.

Suddenly, the office door creaks open. John jumps slightly and clutches his heart. I freeze, wide-eyed. John had always had a history of heart problems. He wasn't necessarily easily scared, but I was still cautious of anyone causing him unnecessary shock. He stood back to let a thin, pale looking man with brown hair and mustache walk through and sit behind the desk opposite. He flicks through his papers for a moment, humming to himself, oblivious, before realising he isn't alone. He jumps up from his chair suddenly. "John!" the man cries, "Sorry, I didn't see you here". His eyes turn to me, and all of a sudden he's walking across the office to greet me. I rise to my feet and shake his hand.

"You must be Elizabeth" the man said, his hands warm compared to my own, "I'm Peter, Peter Mandelson". I smile at him and nod.

"Lovely to meet you" I say, "Haven't we met before?". I'm starting to really recognise him now. I must have seen him at some point, surely. Peter considers me for a moment and narrows his eyes. "Say, you weren't the one who made that speech about John Major at conference in '91, were you?" he asks. I nod again.

"That was me" I reply, the speech flooding back to me. It had been my first conference speech, and one I had spent many sleepless nights working on. George had tried to help me tweak it a bit, but I hadn't let him. 'I'm not having Tory paw prints allover this' I had joked. I smiled to myself absently for a moment before remembering where I was. "It was a good speech" Peter compliments, "And you beat one of Thatcher's lot in the election. I think we can probably expect great things from you". He smiles at me again, not just politely this time. John nods proudly in the background. "Now, now, Peter" he says, "Don't try and induct the poor lady into a leadership battle on her first day. Now, you must excuse me. I've got one or two things to attend to". He smiles at me, and then at Peter, who has now retreated back to his desk. "See you later, John" I smile, sinking back into my own chair. Peter does the same, and then we're left on our own.

I click open my briefcase and take out my things. The file detailing Parliamentary procedure that had been sent to me the day after my election, my parker pen, a notebook, the day's Order Paper, my diary, and, of course, a couple of framed photos of my family. My parents were still in Oxford with Helena and my two other brothers, Fraser and Ian. Nevin was back in Scotland, working as an intern for the Chief Economist at the Royal Bank of Scotland. I had a photo of all of them posing in Paris with me, and set it down near the edge of my desk. The second photoframe contained a picture of my grandfather, dressed in his military uniform, and my grandmother on their wedding day. The third and final one showed me and George on my nineteenth birthday. He had given me a golden locket in typical twentieth century romantic style. I still wore it to this day.

"Some friendly faces to get you through the day?" Peter jokes, nodding to the frames on my desk. I smile fondly at them and nod. There aren't any such things on Peter's desk I notice. "Something like I that" I say, "I'm sure you must have a friendly faces knocking about somewhere". Peter scoffs as he does his paperwork. His pen scratches along each page quickly, and not once does he look up. "If I kept all the 'friendly faces' I wanted to keep on my desk, I'd probably get beaten up" he comments. I frown and lean back in my seat. "Whatever do you mean?" I ask. Peter stops working and looks over at me.

"Well, I'm gay" he tells me. I look from left to right and shrug. I'd been campaigning for equal rights for years. I'm sure there were still some who saw homosexuality as an issue for some, but for me it had never been one. "So?" I ask, "Why does that matter? Love is love". Peter smiled slightly but sighed.

"Unfortunately not everyone is as liberal-minded as you" Peter said. I thought about that for a moment. I'd heard much about the 'old boys network', but now I was beginning to wonder just how dark the Westminster system was. Perhaps I'd have to be extra vigilant...


	3. Gordon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon finally gets around to calling at Elizabeth's office, but he's in one of his usual grumpy moods.

I've been sat at my desk for two hours now. Peter and I had been to a Parliamentary Labour Party meeting earlier to hear about the upcoming leadership election, and then we'd gone into the Commons to affirm. I'd been raised a Catholic, but I consider myself an atheist now. We'd stayed in the Commons to hear the Treasury questions session, they returned to our office. I don't know where Peter is now. All I have to do is finish a few bits of paperwork. I'm already collecting a fair-sized pile on my desk. I'd made sure to put all my papers on the opposite side to my photo frames. I couldn't have any of that crap covering all those 'friendly faces', as Peter referred to them. George rang me at lunch. He's working as a researcher at Conservative Central Office. It wasn't the best arrangements, with me being a Labour MP, but we loved each other, and that was enough, wasn't it?

A knock on the office door brings me to my senses. I set my pen down and look up. "Come in" I call. The door creaks open, and in walks a man of stoic build with thick-black hair and sullen eyes. His skin was pale and weather-beaten, as though he had just been on some great hike. It was the frustration that filled his eyes that I could recognise the most. "Gordon!" I smile. He walks towards me and feigns a smile. He sinks down onto the couch and rubs his head. "That sort of a day, is it?" I ask him. He always seemed so tense lately. I wondered what it was that was getting to him. The defeat, perhaps?

"You're settling in okay, I take it?" Gordon asks me. I nod and glance around the office curiously. It was cold in here, but I was beginning to get used to it. Peter was very nice too, so that made it better. I was still unsure about what John had said about him, of course. I hadn't yet seen the 'cunning' side of Peter, and I wasn't sure I wanted to.

"It's gone smoothly so far" I say, reflecting mentally on the day, "Though I'd much rather here about whatever's bothering you". Gordon looks at me with those tired brown eyes of his. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. "It's that Sedgefield bloke" he says gruffly. I raise an eyebrow. I was vaguely aware of 'that Sedgefield bloke'. Blair, I think his name was. A posh English fellow who used to work in law. He was the Shadow Employment Secretary, if my memory serves me correctly. I'm sure Gordon used to share an office with him.

"He wants me to run for the leadership, but I don't want to" Gordon explains. I frown at him and shrug.

"Then don't" I reply, "He can't make you". Gordon isn't the sort who is easily coaxed into things. It'd take a great deal more than Blair to change his mind.

"He's the most pretentious person in this godforsaken place" he mutters, "He just barks on and on about 'changing the Party' and 'bringing us into the modern world'. If he think his ideas are so fucking brilliant why doesn't he stand?". I can tell Gordon is getting annoyed now. I didn't want to have to try and deal with another Brown rampage. I knew how he felt, though. My temper had always been short.

"Perhaps he knows he'd never win" I suggest, "John is almost definitely running. Or maybe he just wanted to see _you_ as leader". Gordon scoffs.

"Not yet" he tells me, "One day, maybe". I narrow my eyes at him.

"You will get there, Gordon" I reassure him, "You've said it yourself, you've always wanted this". Gordon gets to his feet and paces around the office.

"I'll be backing John" he announces, "I presume you'll be helping me?". I nod straight away. I couldn't imagine anyone else taking the leadership now. John wasn't just the leader Labour needed, he was one of my greatest friends and mentors. "Of course" I say proudly, "I reckon he's probably going to win it uncontested". Gordon jerks his head slightly and puts his hands on his hips.

"Let's hope so" he says, "We need to find a new leader quickly, otherwise the Tories are going to walk allover us. Oh, bollocks, why couldn't we have won that election? I'm so sick of losing". I sigh and lean back in my chair. We hadn't formed a government, but we had at least gained many seats, including my own. 1992 hadn't been our worst year. It was the best defeat we've ever suffered, and I was keen to remind Gordon of that. "It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Yes, it's terrible that we didn't get a majority. Yes, we're going to have to put up with Tory rule until the next election" I say calmly, "But it isn't as though we've been wiped out. It would always have been difficult to get that majority after '87. We're making gains, so why don't you focus on that". Gordon focused on my words for a moment and nodded slowly. He sits back onto the couch and sighs yet again.

"You're right" he says, and suddenly he gives me a small smile, "Anyway, I don't want to depress you any more. How are the family?". I glance at my photo frames and smile.

"All fine, thank you" I tell him, "My father's been having a few issues with his chest recently, but the doctor's say it's nothing to worry about. Fraser and Helena are starting university soon. I'd almost forgotten just how much they're growing up". Gordon smiles warmly, and it's genuine this time. He gives one particular photo on my desk a quick glance and nods towards it. "And the Tory lad?" he asks, the faintest hints of a smirk forming on his lips. I roll my eyes and shake my head.

"He's fine. Not enjoying work, of course, but what do you expect" I speak, "You won't shout about it, will you?". I'd never get anywhere in the Party if people found out I was in a relationship with a Conservative. I was risking a hell of a lot on the awkward Baronet's son who I had met so long ago. Gordon shakes his head and me and gets to his feet once again. "Of course not" he says, "Though I can't say anything for the press once you start getting front bench jobs". I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Even John wouldn't give me a place in the shadow cabinet. Not yet, at least. I'm the youngest MP in this place. They don't want a twenty-one year old in charge of anything" I argue. Gordon doesn't look convinced. "You've also got a First in Mathematics" he replies, "I'm sure the Treasury team would like to have you". I sigh and glance at my watch. I get to my feet and slip on my coat. I can feel the need for a cigarette coming on, and I can feel my legs going to sleep. "Can we please stop talking about my political career and go outside?".


	4. Making Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth begins to get the recognition she had always wanted, though not all of it is positive.

_**2nd July, 1992** _

_**Westminster,** **London**_

"Hello?". I could just about hear George's voice on the other end of the phone. Conservative Central Office must have been having a party of some sorts. If they were, it was unwarranted. Major had already suffered a heavy dip in the polls. Despite the noise, I continued.

"I'm nervous" I admit, not usually one to admit such weaknesses. George sighs. I begin to wonder whether I'm disturbing him. It is eleven in the morning, I suppose. "You have nothing to be worried about" George tells me. I tut and glance behind me. Peter is leaning against the door of the office, checking his watch. We'd decided to make our maiden speeches together. Gordon said he'd come into the Commons to listen to them, which made it even better.

"You've never had to make a seven minute speech in front of dozens of people who hate you" I remind him, of course referring the Conservatives. Most of them had been rather bitter towards me for knocking Michael Heseltine out in the election. "Who cares what my lot think?" George tells me earnestly, "You deserved to win that seat. I'm very much a Tory, and I'm happy to admit that Heseltine was losing it". I smile at that and glance up at the clock mounted on the office wall. Peter and I were due in the Commons in ten minutes. I was already feeling slightly more confident. 

"I'll have to go now" I tell George, "I'll let you know how it went later". I can almost sense George's smile on the other end of the line. "Give them hell" he says, "Not literally, of course". I laugh and go to finish the call. Then at the last minute, I hear his voice again. I put the phone to my ear and frown. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask. 

"I _said_ I love you" George says, feigning impatience. I chuckle slightly and shake my head. "Of course you do" I reply, and end the call. We'd never really been a typically soppy couple. We didn't burst into a fit of giggles whenever once of us professed our love for the other. Indeed, such professions were rare, especially in the presence of other people.

Peter is smirking as we leave the office. I had told him I was living with my boyfriend of four years, but I hadn't said anything more than that. I liked Peter a great deal, but what John had said about him on my first day still cautious about sharing anything private. Peter got the hint I wasn't in the mood for any probing questions about my love life, so he turned the conversation in another direction.

"You're the third richest person in the PLP, you know" Peter comments randomly. I furrow my eyebrows and glance at him disapprovingly. My family's wealth was constantly being referred to as a bad thing. Money is good as long as you use it for good purposes. "I don't see how that's relevant" I tell Peter. He shrugs.

"Nelson Ltd. is a construction company, isn't it?" he asks, "In Scotland". I'm always happy to discuss the nature of my family's business, of course. Just not the money that it brings in. "Not just Scotland" I correct him, "My father extended the business to England and Wales in '83. That's how we ended up moving to Oxford". Peter listens intently.

"I read somewhere that your grandfather was a milkman" he says, chuckling to himself at the thought. I chuckle along with him, because it's true. The story of my grandfather had been a remarkable one, I had to admit. "He was, until World War Two   started. He joined the army, but a year after he was shot in the shoulder. They sent him back to Britain for surgery, but he was never sent back. And so he helped by driving ambulances during the bombings in Edinburgh" I tell Peter, "After the war ended, and my grandfather realised just how many houses in Scotland had been destroyed, he founded the company. He built hospitals and homes for returning soldiers, too. That's how he got his Baronetcy". Peter nods his head slowly, impressed. I had always been very proud of my grandfather. I wished I had got to spend more time with him.

"He sounds like a good man" Peter comments. I raise and eyebrow and look st him. "So was yours" I reply. Peter smiles. I'd heard since we first met that Peter was the grandson of Herbert Morrison, a minister in the old Attlee Labour government. I wondered what it must be like to come from an old Labour family rather than an old Conservative family. 

"Are you ready?" I ask Peter suddenly, as the doors of the Commins chamber grow closer and closer. I clench my fists and take a deep breath. "I think so" Peter replies, and I can tell by his face that he's nervous, "Are you?". For some reason I laugh. The doors are opened as we approach. There are already a dozen or so fellow MPs sat down. I spot Gordon on the front bench on the opposition side. He's sat next to a familiar looking man with a wide grin and sandy brown hair. Wait, that was the Sedgefield bloke. I was surprised Gordon hadn't punched him. Peter and I sit directly behind them. I glance over to the Speaker's chair. There are a few introductory words. And then it all begins, and all of sudden I hear my name. "Elizabeth Nelson" Bettie Boothroyd calls, nodding over to me. And some how, I find my feet and rise.

* * *

 

"Peter, you were brilliant!". I can't help but gush as we walk out of the Commons together. Both of us, anxiousness now gone, are smiling away happily. "Thank you" he says, "My speech wasn't a patch on yours, though". I shake my head at that. I had managed to slip in a few decent jokes when reading my maiden speech, but they were but Christmas cracker puns compared to Peter's. I had felt rather dumb founded.

"It was like watching a younger version of myself, Liz" Gordon says, joining us suddenly. He's actually smiling again now. He puts and arm around my shoulder and walks with Peter and I through the lobby. "Well I'm glad that's over" I admit, "We can our teeth stuck into Major now, Peter". He laughs and smiles at the ground rather menacingly. I was already looking forward to seeing him use that wit of his on the prime minister. "Oh, brace yourselves" Gordon grumbles, dark eyes indicating to a group of gentleman huddled together at the end of the corridor, "Thatcherites". George's voice instantly began to play in my head. Who cares what my lot think? I made a point of holding my head up and strode past the huddle without a single glance in their direction. I can hear them whispering, and feel their eyes on me. Tots were always plotting something, I had found.

"They didn't have the balls to heckle you during your sperch" Gordon says once they are out of hearing distance, "They know you're a threat". I glance ahead pensively. I thought their bitterness towards me was simply caused by the fact I had managed to unseat one of their best friends. I couldn't quite understand how a twenty-one year old woman was a threat to them. I still paid attention to what it was Gordon was saying, of course.

"They're going to hate your guts for as long as you keep that seat, Liz" Gordon tells me honestly, "You've stolen part of Oxfordshire from them, their very heart. They will take every opportunity available to try and steal it back". I furrow my eyebrows and register each word. Like I say, the Tories were always plotting. I couldn't help but look around in that moment, as though watching out for anyone planning on stabbing me in the back. I could trust my own party, of course. Couldn't I?

"Well then" I sigh, "They'll have a game trying to get me out of this place. I have no desire to leave. Not for a long time yet".

* * *

George had cussed me several times in the past for working laye, and now here he was, sat cross-legged in bed, pen scribbling away on a piece of paper. I sat up in the space next to him, pulling the duvet up to my stomach in order to keep my bottom half warm. "Are you planning on going to sleep at all tonight?" I ask sarcastically. George looks at me, and then at the clock. He sets his pen and paper down on the bedside table and yawns. "Sorry" he says, "It's just a few calculations that I didn't get around to completing at the office". He leans over and turns the lamp off, plunging the bedroom into darkness. "I didn't realise you got paid to do sudoku puzzles" I quip. George snorts beside me and rolls onto his side in my direction. "And I didn't realise that sarcasm was your second tongue" he replies. 

"Well, you know me" I joke, "A master of many languages". Even through the shadows I can tell that George is smiling. He puts his arms around me and holds me close. I go to rest my head on his chest, but he suddenly lets out a gasp of pain. I frown and go to turn the lamp on again. Light fills the bedroom once more. George bites his lip as he usually does when he's hiding something. "It's nothing" he protest as I pull down on the collar of his t-shirt. On his chest is a fairly large, purple bruise. From its colour I could tell it was fresh. I look at him in confusion.

"George, what did you do?" I ask him sternly. For a moment it looks as though he's going to try and lie, but, wisely, he decides against it. "The prick who works opposite me saw your picture in the Mail and, well, let's just say that he wasn't exactly respectful" George explains, his tone almost sweet, "I couldn't help myself". Oddly, I laugh. 

"Did you have a fight with one of your colleagues over a socialist?" I ask. George sighs and nods, but in his eyes there is no shame. I can't help but feel slightly touched. George could have lost his job if he had been caught fighting. It was lovely to know that he was still on my side, even in control centre of the Conservative Party. "Bless you" I say, swooping down and giving him a quick peck on the lips. Then, the lamp is turned off once more. George holds me near again as I start to nod off, only this time he doesn't complain about the pain in his chest. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for any spelling/grammar errors, by the way. This was written late at night on my phone, not the best conditions really. Feel free to leave a comment in the designated area :)


	5. It All Seems So Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a promising new start for the Labour Party.

**18th July, 1992.**

**Brighton, England.**

It had been a good day. At eleven this morning, we had found out who our new leader was. It had been a remarkably swift campaign overall, with just two MPs standing. Naturally, John had won. He secured 91% of the vote in the end. I clapped so hard my hands are still hurting. By now we had left the conference hall and were in the bar of our hotel. Many of John's biggest supporters were there, myself and Gordon included. I noticed the Sedgefield fellow sitting nearby, but he didn't seem to be celebrating as much as the rest of us. I failed to see how anyone could be saddened by John's election. He was precisely the man we needed.

"Do it again, John" Jack Straw laughs, waving his pint glass in our new leader's direction, "Go on". John, perched on a barstool, sighs, only to be drowned out by our cheers. John had been entertaining us with his wide array of impressions. He usually did a Margaret Thatcher/Michael Foot routine, but recently he had learnt to imitate John Major too. " _Norma_ " he would repeat, modelling Major's weedy, dull voice to perfection. "The Right Honourable Gentleman-" John begins, this time copying Major's usual facial expressions. Before he even had a chance to finish his sentence, Prescott was banging his fist on the bar, eyes squeezed shut as he laughed heartily. We had all had quite a bit to drink by this point, so anything that was even mildly amusing became hilarious.

"Wait, wait" Gordon says, hushing everyone in the vicinity, "A toast". We all reached for our glasses, most of which were empty. "A toast to our new leader" Gordon announces, raising his half-draining tumbler of whisky into the air, "And seeing as he is our new leader, I'm sure he won't mind paying for another bottle or two". The bar was filled with cheers and the clinking of glasses. John winks at me and taps his drink against my own. I drain the last of mine and walk up to the bar to get another. As I wait, I notice someone lurking out of the corner of my eye. I may be ever so slightly tipsy, but I still have my wits about me. "Can I help you?" I call out, not even bothering to turn around. I have a feeling I know who it might be. Then, as predicted, the Sedgefield fellow steps forward.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced" he says, offering a hand. I glance at it and shake it briefly.

"Now we have" I quip. The man laughs and flashes me one of his usual Cheshire Cat-style grins.

"Are all Scots quite so dry?" he jokes, leaning against the bar in an attempt to appear casual. The bartender sets a fresh glass of wine on the top and walks away.

"Are all Englishmen quite so wet?" I reply, the alcohol clearly fueling my sarcasm. Again, the Sedgefield man laughs, though I can't help but think it's out of anxiousness. What reason would he have to be anxious around me? He's a frontbencher almost double my age. Perhaps it's because he knows I'm a friend of Gordon's. "So, you're the Sedgefield fellow, aren't you?" I ask, curious to know what his actual name was. I always seemed to forget, you see, and calling him 'that Sedgefield bloke' was getting repetitive.

"Tony. Tony Blair" the man introduces himself politely, "You're the daughter of the great Sir Douglas, aren't you? I've heard much about the family business-". I take my wine from the bar and begin to turn away. "I'm also the youngest woman to be elected to Parliament in over 50 years, but no one seems to want to talk about that" I say. Blair follows me as I walk. "Forgive me, I meant nothing by it" he insists, "I only meant-". I roll my eyes and smile at him. I didn't know much about this Blair character yet. I didn't want to be a complete bitch to him simply because he annoyed Gordon.

"Don't worry, Mr Blair" I tell him, inviting him to sit with me, "I'm only messing with you. I get the feeling you've approached me with some great purpose". Tony takes the seat opposite and smiles at me yet again. He shrugs. "Only to get the chance to speak with you properly" he says, "I've become somewhat infatuated with you over the past few weeks. In a platonic sense, of course". I laugh and take a sip of my wine.

"Mr Blair, you do flatter me so" I joke, "How do you fancy your chances in John's cabinet?". Blair was on good terms with John, from what I understood. He'd sat on the frontbench for many years now, and was quite the respected figure in Westminster. "Well, naturally I'll consider any position offered to me" Tony answers, "It's probably cocky of me to expect a post at all". I jerk my head.

"You've been pretty successful so far" I tell him honestly, "I can see you getting Shadow Home Sec, something like that". Tony chuckles lightly. "I certainly don't expect anything quite as grand as that" he replies, "What about you, anyway?". He leans on the table and looks to me expectantly. I set my glass down and frown.

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. He wasn't saying what I thought he was saying, surely. "Well, I expect you'll be given a post of some sort" Tony explains. i stare at him for a moment, before bursting out laughing. "Don't be ridiculous" I cry, "I've only been in the bloody job for a month or so". Tony smiled, but he didn't laugh. "You'd be good on the Treasury team" he insists. I shake my head and continue to laugh into my wine glass. I'm beginning to see the bottom again already. Everyone else seemed to be wankered so I didn't really care.

"I like you, Blair" I say, very much amused at the thought of getting any sort of position so early in my career. Blair grins like the posh thing that he is and nods to me. "And I you" he says, "I hope we'll be able to work together often in the future". I snort and get to my feet again. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Gordon beckoning to me. "Don't let your wife hear you say that" I joke to Blair, before moving on again.

* * *

 

By now it's 3am. I lie in bed with my eyes shut. I'm not asleep, just taking a moment to think to myself as my head begins to ache. I'd had a cup or two of coffee and a cold shower to try and bring myself around a bit. The air in that bar had been so thick with alcohol that I didn't even have to drink anything in the end. I'm just beginning to nod off when the phone on my bedside table rings. I sigh and grope around in the dark to try and find it.

"Hello?" I murmur down the receiver. A familiar voice sounds out on the other end.

"Did I wake you up?" John asks, sounding remarkably sober. He'd been so busy talking and making jokes that he had neglected most of his drinks. "No, no" I tell him, "How can I help you at this fine hour?". Whatever it was it had better be important. Even John could not disturb my peace and get away with it.

"Well, I'm busy planning my shadow cabinet. I've got all the big jobs sorted" John explains, "Gordon as Shadow Chancellor, Blair as Home Secretary, so on". I smile through my yawns. 

"Brilliant" I tell him, making a mental reminder to congratulate Gordon at the earliest possible opportunity, "Some of the brightest minds  the party". John thanks me for my approval and continues. "I'm just working on our shadow Treasury team, you see. I've got Harriet down for Chief Secrstart but there are still one or two gaps". I sit up in bed and rub my head. Harman seemed like a fair choice for the Treasury.

"Go on" I say slowly, wanting John to get to the point so that I could go to sleep. John chuckles for some reason. "Alright, Liz, I'll just come out and say it" he says, "Do you want to be our economics secretary?". My fatigue and drunkness make interpreting John's words difficult.

"Economics secretary" I repeat. 

"Shadow Ecnomic Secretary to the Treasury, would be your full title" John adds, "You've got a First in Mathematics, so I'd say you know what you're doing. Besides, you get along with Gordon so well".

"Wait, you mean you're actually-" I begin, but cut myself off out of shock. John laughs. "Yes, I am" he says cheerfully, "I don't give a damn about your age. You've got potential, a spring in your step. I need you to take this job on. Please, Liz". I don't even need to consider it. 

"Okay" I tell him proudly, "I'll do it".

"Excellent" John says, "You won't regret it". Before he can hang up I speak again. "Oh, and John?" I say, "Thank you. Really, thank you". I can almost hear the smile in his voice. "You're very welcome" he replies, and then the line goes dead. I put the phone back on bedside table and snuggle back down under the sheets. My hotel room suddenly feels so much warmer. My thoughts race. 

Tony was right. How could he have been right? No one gets junior ministerial positions this early, no one. It was a dream. Of course it was. Why else would John waste his time hiring me? I laugh to myself in an odd manner and roll over onto my side. Just a dream, I tell myself, simply a dream. And then I close my eyes and wait for this 'dream' to end.

 


	6. Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth's first meeting with someone who will be a very important figure in her life.

**10th January, 1993**

**The Cinnamon Club, Westminster**

1992 had been a good year for me, perhaps my best. I'd managed to win a Tory safe seat and make my way onto the front bench in a matter of months. It had been a long time since that night in July, when John was first announced as Party leader. My first performance as a frontbencher had gone smoothly, though naturally the right-wing media had been keen to point out my lack of experience. It was January now, and I was still in the job. I'd call that a success.

"You see" Peter says, setting his pint glass down on the little table we sat around, "If you shout, then they know they've got you rattled. If you speak calmly, they'll say you're not taking the debate seriously enough". I nod and take a sip of my whisky.

"Emotional investment" I agree, "There needs to be some kind of passion in the eyes other wise it just looks like you're reading from a script". My voice trails off slightly when I notice Peter is no longer looking at me. His eyes drift off to another corner of the club. Curiously, I follow them. At the other end of the room stands a tall, thin man with short blond hair. He wears a light grey suit and tie, and has a briefcase on the floor beside his stool. Peter, eyes still fixed on the man, takes a sip of his beer. I roll my eyes.

"Good luck" I wink, before rising to my feet and slipping my coat on. Peter frowns at me momentarily. "Where are you going?" he asks. I nod towards the man at the bar and shrug my shoulders. "Well, you're quite capable of handling this situation yourself" I tell him. Peter gets to his feet and winks at me, before moving across the floor towards the stranger. Before I leave, I watch him flawlessly introduce himself. For most, having a man randomly introduce himself was strange, but not when it was Peter. He was so very maticulous.

As I step outside the club, a wave of cool night air hits me. I stay close to the wall and rummage around in my bag for my cigarettes. I had been meaning to quit for quite a while now, but the stress of the job and the satisfaction it gave me had stopped me from making any long-term commitments to the idea. I take out a fresh cigarette and then set about trying to find my lighter.

"Here" says a strangely familiar voice. I look up from my bag to see a fairly young-looking man holding a lighter towards me. His hair is of a light red, like mine, and he talks with a soft Scottish accent, _like me_. I've seen him talk in the Commons a dozen times or so, but this is the first time I've been able to meet him properly.

"Thank you" I say, taking the lighter and using it. I hand it back to him and watch as he slips it into his suit pocket. He takes a quick puff of his own cigarette and smiles at me. "They'll kill you, you know" he comments. I chuckle.

"Says the man who's probably been smoking longer than I've been alive" I quip. The red-headed man jerks his head and shrugs. "Well, I suppose I'm nearer to death than you are, so it doesn't really matter" he replies jokingly.

"Is our entire conversation going to be this morbid?" I ask lightly, "It is Mr Kennedy, isn't it?". He offers a hand to me, and I shake it.

"Charles" he corrects, "I saw you taking on that idiot John Maples in the Commons the other week. Very impressive". I smile appreciatively.

"I try my best" I say sarcastically, "It's never difficult to outwit Maples". Charles shrugs and takes a quick puff of his cigarette.

"Maybe" he replies, "The polls are looking good for your lot. Smith's got a 13% lead over Major". I nod to that. John had got into his role as leader very quickly. He was both honest and capable. The shambles that had been Kinnock's leadership had been washed away. "Not jealous are you?" I joke, well aware that the Liberal Democrats had nothing to fear about the next election, whenever that may be. They were on track, just like us. Naturally, I didn't want them to do _too_ well.

"Well, lets not forget that Paddy has a 7% lead over both of them" Charles comments, "I have little to be jealous of". I laugh and point my lit cigarette at him accusingly.

"We'll see what happens come the next general election" I tell him, confident in John and hopeful about the future. Charles smiles at me and looks up at the dark, star-studded sky. "Yes" Charles says quietly, " _We'll see_ ".


	7. Christmas Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is in full swing at the Nelson household. There are one or two things that threaten to bring down the happiness, though.

**24th December, 1993.**

**Beckley, Oxfordshire.**

'Smith Surges'. That was the headline of The Guardian. The year had seen our party go from strength to strength. Major didn't stand a chance in the next election, I knew it. I sit and read the newspaper at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in front of me. My mother has even managed to hang tinsel up in here. It seemed to follow me allover the house, like an irritatingly sparkly snail trail.

"More Christmas cards for you, dear" Mother says, setting a fresh stack of envelopes on my desk. I look up from my newspaper and laugh. "Half of them are probably Tory letter bombs" I joke, reaching over to grab one. My mother looks worried for a moment, but soon regains her smile. "Don't be morbid, dear" she says, "It's Christmas". I give her a mock salute and rip open the envelope. The card is a nice, traditional one, with a painting of a snowy Scottish landscape on the front. I open it and read the message inside.

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_Have a very merry Christmas._

_I'll see you in the new year._

_Love from,_

_Gordon x_

I smile, but frown suddenly. He seemed to be once again denying the existence of girlfriend. I'd seen Sheena in his flat in London, so it wasn't as though it was a shock to me. I was just as bad, I suppose. I hadn't written George's name on everyone's Christmas cards. Then again, Sheena wasn't a Tory. 

"That's a very pretty card" Helena says, waltzing into the kitchen wearing one of her typically pink dresses, "Who is it from?".

"Gordon" I answer simply, expecting her to know who I meant by that. The names Gordon, Peter, John, Harriet, Tony and Charles were all well known in the Nelson household by now. Helena, as usual, hadn't been paying attention.

"Brown?" I add, noting the look of confusion on her delicate features, "The Shadow Chancellor?". Helena nodded, but I knew she still didn't know who I was talking about. I give Gordon's Christmas card another fond glance and set it down in front of me. I then get started on the rest of the pile.

"What on earth have you done to your neck?" I ask Helena as sits down beside me. I brush her long red hair back slightly to get a better look at the bright red mark just under her chin. Helena seizes a card from my pile and flips her hair back. "I didn't do it" she tells me quietly. I stare at her for a moment before exclaiming in disgust.

"Moving on" I say quickly, wanting to make sure that Helena didn't elaborate. I had no interest in what she got up to at university. For a moment I felt like an old woman. Helena must have been thinking the same thing, because suddenly she says "prude". I ignore her and instead focus on the neat, religion-themed Christmas card Tony has sent me. I stand it next to Gordon's. Even their cards would start fighting, I'd expect.

"Liz?" Helena asks, looking bored as she read a card from the shadow education secreated. I sigh heavily. "Yes?" I ask impatiently, wishing she would go and sit somewhere else so I could read my Christmas cards in peace. Ha, peace. Wouldn't that be wonderful. I reach for my tea to calm me down

"When are you getting married?" Helena asks. I splutter into my mug. It's a good job I don't care too much for my secretary, because I'd just got tea on her card. "What?" I cough. Helena blinks.

"Well, you are going to marry George, aren't you?" she asks blankly. For once, I don't have an answer. I'd never really given much thought to marriage. I suppose,  my own naïve way, I'd always thought the set up that George had would remain. But I was rising through the ranks in the Labour Party, and George was verging on promotion in the Conservative Party. I was being selfish, if anything.

"He's a Tory" I say. Helena shrugs.

"So?" she tells me, "Why does that matter?". Either she misunderstood the concept of politics, or she was saying that it really didn't matter when 'love' was involved. Yes, I did love George, and had no intention of leaving him. But what about our careers? We'd had our dreams long before we'd had each other.

"George would never get any where if he was married to me" I tell her solemnly, "They probably wouldn't even let him stand for election". Helena shrugged again and stood up. "Maybe there are more important things in life than elections" she says, before gliding away out of the kitchen. I'm left to think on that particular sentence for a while. Until the backdoor opens, that is.

"Blimey". Fraser stumbles into the kitchen, snow lightly dusting his woollen hat. George follows him inside just as covered. I look around quickly. If Mother saw them getting snow allover the place, she'd have a fit. "Did you get it then?" I ask. Fraser nods and pulls a single jar of cranberry sauce from his coat pocket. He set it down on the counter and then kneels down in front of the oven, taking in the aroma of the cooking turkey. The two young men remove their winter gear and hang it all up to dry. I can feel the cool air radiating from them both as they get nearer. "You're freezing" I comment, taking one of Fraser's hands in my own, "Go and sit by the fire or something". Fraser laughs.

"Yes, Mother" he says sarcastically, but goes on through to the living room anyway. George watches him go for a moment, and then ruffles his thick, black hair. "Bright young lad, your brother" he says. I nod.

"You've been slightly north of London for about a week and you're already using the word 'lad'" I joke. George chuckles and sits down at the kitchen table. "Love letters?" He mocks, nodding to the still-giant pile of Christmas cards lying near. I hit his arm gently and pass a couple to him. "I've got connections now, you see" I jest. George laughs and rips an envelope open. 

"Who is Lionel Barber?" he asks several moments later. I furrow my eyebrows and lean over to look at the card. "I have no idea" I tell him, and it's true. I'm not sure I've even met a 'Lionel' before. The message inside the card interests me. 'I enjoyed your conference speech earlier this year' were amongst the words hastily scrawled on the card. I wondered if this Lionel was a supporter, but supporters didn't have access to the addresses of MPs. "Strange" I say. George props the card up with the other's I've opened. I forget about this 'Lionel Barber' figure quickly, and get onto the rest. I can't help but chuckle slightly at the next one.

It was a Private Eye Christmas card. I could tell that from the fact it featured a satirical cartoon of myself on the front. I'd met Private Eye's editor, Ian Hislop, many times. He was a very pleasant man for one so sceptical. Of course, he wasn't my biggest fan, but we did seem to have a certain amount of respect for one another. The Christmas card I had sent him seemed pathetic in comparison to the one he had now sent to me. Suddenly, I realise someone is staring at me.

"Can I help you, George?" I ask curiously, not looking up in his direction. I know the stare of those big brown eyes of his anywhere. "No, no" he says, "I was just thinking about how beautiful you are". I roll my eyes.

"Stop off at the pub on the way to the shop, did you?" I ask jokingly. I hear George chuckle slightly under his breath. "Most girls love to be complimented" he assesses. I wondered where he had picked up this particular observation from, as, as far as I knew, I was the first girlfriend he had ever had. "Well, you know me" I say, "Always keen to break the norm". I get the feeling there is something George wants to talk about. A question lingers in the air, but I don't know what it is. I'm not sure I want to hear it, anway. Whatever it is is sure to bring the mood down a little. It was Christmas, after all.

 


	8. A Late Christmas Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet gives Elizabeth a present of sorts.

**28th December, 1993.**

**Beckley, Oxfordshire.**

It was 10:46pm and Harriet Harman was, for some bizarre reason, on the phone. I'd been talking to her for about five minutes by this point, and still we hadn't got to the issue at hand. Whatever that issue was, of course. I was very much in the dark.

Christmas was over, January was nearly upon us, and George had returned to Paddington. I met have felt bad about bringing him away from his family for the holidays had I not valued his company so much. We did live together, I suppose. "And then Jack forgot to take the turkey out of the oven" Harriet finishes her anecdote with an annoyed sigh. I laugh a little and glance out of the window. It was still snowing.

"Well I'm glad you had such an eventful Christmas" I say, "Now, what was it you wanted to tell me about?". Harriet's voice lifts an octave or two, as though she's excited about something. "Ah, yes" she replies, "Something should be arriving at your door very soon. Consider it a gift from me". I frown.

"What do you mean?" I ask politely.

"Well, it's someone, not something" Harriet tells me, and my frown deepens, "One of my advisers. He's brilliant with numbers; I thought he would be better off with you". I blink, before smiling slightly. I had been thinking of advertising for an adviser. But why on earth would Harriet send the poor man out into the wilds of Oxford so late at night? I suspected she may be a little tipsy.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. "I think your little gift may have just arrived" I tell Harriet, "I'll speak to you tomorrow. Thank you, by the way". 

"It's quite alright" Harriet speaks, "I'm sure the two of you will get along just fine. Good night". I wished her a good night and put the phone down. Mother, Father and Helena were probably asleep by now. Fraser was no doubt reading, and Nevin had been hastily filling out paperwork at the coffee table. I hadn't a clue where Ian, my youngest brother, who has yet to make an appearance in this story, was. Probably in the shed hitting that mattered punchbag of his, I'd expect.

I walk down the hall, my slippers gliding across the polished wooden floor of the house gracefully. I unlock the door and open it. A wave of frozen air hits my face. On the doorstep stands a young man, perhaps only a few years older than myself, covered from head to toe in winter gear. Through the striped scarf that covers his mouth and nose, I see a pair of perfectly round spectacles. Loose stands of brown hair dangle from underneath his hat. There is something oddly endearing about him, I decide. "Hello" he says, waving at me awkwardly, "Harriet Harman sent me". His voice is somewhat nasally, and I begin to wonder whether sending him out in such conditions has given him a cold. I step aside and invite him in. "It's freezing out there" I say, "Do come inside". The young man nods and walks in.

I take his coat and scarf and hang them up on the coat stand. He shivers violently and rubs his arms. He's wearing a plain, cotton shirt and a somewhat floral tie. He carries a small briefcase along with him. It was as though he had come straight from the office. I felt it was time for some introductions. "I'm Elizabeth" I say, aware that he probably already knows my name, "And you are?". The young man shakes my hand briefly and smiles.

"Oh, I'm Ed" he tells me, "Ed Miliband". I narrow my eyes. I'd heard that name before. "You don't have a brother do you, Ed?" I ask curiously. 

"David" he informs me, "He works for the IPPR". I nod and invite Ed through to the living room. When I open the door I find Nevin is still in there, pen scratching away at a piece of paper as he scratches his head. He looks up as Ed and I walk in. "Nevin" I say, "This is-"

"Ed!" my brother cries, getting to his feet and shaking my new adviser's hand joyfully, "It's good to see you!". Ed smiles and pats him on the shoulder. The two talk briefly and share a joke or two, whilst I can only look on in confusion.

"We were at Oxford together" Nevin explains, "It really is a small world isn't it?". Ed nods to that, and takes a seat. Nevin turns back to his paperwork. "RBS" Nevin says simply, taping his papers with his pen, "What brings you to this corner anyway, Ed?". Ed looks to me.

"He's my new adviser" I say, "Harriet says you're a genius when it comes to numbers". Ed almost blushes. 

"I wouldn't say genius" he replies. I smile at him. He seemed like a nice man so far. I was sure we'd get along just fine. "Well, you're welcome to stay here tonight, Ed" I tell him, glancing at the clock warily, "And then maybe tomorrow we'll get some work done". 


	9. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth is enjoying a drink with her Labour colleagues when an unexpected arrival appears.

**21st February, 1994.**

**The Cinnamon Club, Westminster**.

Labour Party get-togethers were always rather fun. I imagined members of other parties did similar things, but Labour social events always seemed to be so much more casual, so _jovial_. And so I find myself back at the Cinnamon Club at a fairly large table, surrounded by MPs and advisers alike.

"I swear he's a Tory" Ed Balls, Gordon's most irritating adviser barks over his pint. I narrow my eyes at him and raise an eyebrow. "Blair is too bright to be a Tory" I remark, "There's nothing Conservative about wanting change". Balls says no more of Tony and instead continues to chat up Yvette, an adviser of Harriet's.

"Christ, Ken Clarke is such a prick" Gordon remarks suddenly, "Did you hear him in the Commons today". We all scowled and drowned our anger in our drinks. "The sooner the election comes, the better" Balls says. Peter glances over in his direction.

"Steady yourself" he warns, "We're not quite ready just yet". Balls looks at him as though he has said something scandalous. The other Ed, who had grown rather dependant on over the past few weeks, simply looks on in wonder at the argument that was sure to follow. "The Tories are-" Balls begins, but Peter silences him.

"In good time, Mr Balls" he says quietly, and for a moment there is complete silence at the table. Peter had become remarkably sinister as the years had gone by. He had a very intruiging personality. I wondered whether any of his traits were rubbing off on me. We didn't share an office anymore, but we still spent a great deal of time together.

"Oh, look who it is" Balls mutters suddenly, eyes drifting off towards the bar, "Must be toff hour". Yvette jabs him in the ribs with her elbow and sighs. Curious, I glance over towards the bar. My heart stops for a moment. There are a group of young men in blue ties stood there, chatting and joking happily. Amongst them is George. I'm almost tempted to jump down onto the ground and hide.

"Shut it, Balls" Gordon warns, realising why I had become so worried all of a sudden. Balls continues to glare at George and his friends. I didn't like having to hide myself. But that was the way it was. In the apartment we were George and Elizabeth. Outside, in the real world, we were Tory and Labourite. Rivals, or perhaps even enemies.

"I've a mind to go over there and-" Ed Balls began again. Gordon slams his glass down onto the table and glares at him. "Balls, I doubt you even possess such a thing" he snaps, "If you don't fucking shut up, I'll have to throw you out myself". Balls' cheeks flush red and he stares down at his lap ashamedly. Peter clears his throat and gets the conservation moving again. I look to Gordon appreciatively. He winks at me and continues with his drink as though nothing had happened.

* * *

"I saw you at the Cinnamon today" I say, sitting cross-legged on the bed as George fumbles around in the bathroom for something. "I'm guessing you were with Mandelson then?" He replies. I jerk my head and suddenly begin to remember Ed Balls. I shudder.

"Well" I begin, "Peter, and the entire bloody Treasury team". George flicks the bathroom light off and steps into the light of the bedroom. He's wearing his usual combo of a plain grey t-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms. "I didn't know Labour possessed such a thing" George jokes. I respond with an obviously fake laugh. "Ha-bloody-ha" I say, "George, you do understand why I can't be seen to be too friendly with you in public, don't you?". It was an issue which had been bugging  for a while. I wasn't ashamed of him, or anything of that ilk, only wary of my career prospects. 

"It's difficult, you know. Seeing the love of your life in a room without being able to go over and even saying so much of a hello" George says, lying back onto the bed. I roll my eyes, as I usually did whenever he said something profoundly sentimental. "Oh George, don't be dramatic" I chuckle, leaning back to join him, "I can't be the love of your life". George turns his head in my direction and frowns.

"Why not?" He asks earnestly, "We've been together for six years. I've never been with anyone else. I doubt I could ever love anyone quite as much as I love you". I gulp. All of sudden it was beginning to become very apparent to me. The elephant in the room was yet to be addressed. "I know I'm not the sweetest, soppiest girlfriend in the world" I tell him, "But I do love you". George smiles at me understandingly and leans over to my side of the bed for a quick peck. But I don't let his lips leave my own. I want to keep him close. Because now I was beginning to realise that this wouldn't last for ever. Some day soon the Tory and the Labourite would have to go their seperate ways.

 

 

 


	10. An Ugly Day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to turn a bit grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a serious note, RIP John Smith. He was a fantastic Labour leader, and I'm sure he would've been prime minister had he not been to cruelly snatched from the world. The country was poorer the day it lost that man, I'm sure of it.

**May 12, 1994.**

**Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, London.**

God could not have provided us with a more fitting backdrop. The London skyline was painted a dismal grey, spots of rain lingering in the air, waiting for the right time to fall. I wish they would just hurry up. The rain makes no odds to me in this moment. Raindrops of my own are falling. They sting my cheeks in a way that the frost never could. The window I stand before is closed, and for a second I consider opening it and leaping out into the morning air. Maybe then this would end. There isn't any point in trying to be strong, no matter how much he would have wanted that. That would be farcical, a show. John Smith is dead, and he isn't coming back.

I'd left the room ten minutes ago, to give Elizabeth, John's wife, alone. It's early, and the inhabitants of the hospital are beginning to wake up. I pay no attention to the doctors and nurses who walk past me. I pay no attention to the musings of delirious old men and clicking of crutches. I pay attention only to the memory of it all. Being awoken with a phone call by a frantic Mrs Smith, hearing her choked words of how her husband had been rushed to hospital. I'd always feared that this day would come. John had suffered from heart problems for so long. I suppose I hadn't realised that it could one day kill him. John was invincible; how could he let this take him?

"Liz?" a solemn voice calls from behind me. I don't turn around. Instead I continue to stare out of the window, blinking back tears, my hands trembling slightly at my sides. A cold hand grips my shoulder, and gently I am turned around. Gordon stands before me, with Peter close behind. Gordon's expression is one of quiet sadness, whilst Peter looks shocked more than anything else. The door behind us opens, and out rushes Mrs Smith, a hand clasped over her mouth as she sought for air. Shortly after, a nurse followed her out and hugged her in the corridor. I dread to think how devastated the girls will be. I turn and look into the now empty room. Except it's bit empty, is it? He's in there. I gulp and walk past Gordon and Peter into the room.

John was just how I had left him. Well, of course he was. Part of me was hoping to find him sat up in bed, glasses on, grin fixed, watching the telly. The reality was grim. There he lay, stale white covers pulled up to his chest, still and quiet. His glasses had been left folded on the bedside table. I'd purposely made sure to bring them with me, in the off chance that John would wake up. Soft footsteps tell me that Gordon and Peter have now entered the room. I reach out a hand and brush a stray piece of hair from John's frozen face. He looks peaceful, at least. I gulp again. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, but I don't let them. Instead I stand there, guarding the body of the man who had inspired me for so long, shaking.

The longer I stay, the harder I know it'll be to walk away. And so I bend down and kiss John's forehead gently. His skin is deadly cold by now, and slowly but surely he is turning grey. Only yesterday he had been so full of life, with red tints in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eye. He still smelt like the John Smith that I knew and loved; an oddly pleasant and homely mix of aftershave and home-cooked dinners. I bow my head and look to my shoes. This way my hair covers my face. I don't want to be seen breaking down now, not while there are people around. I'm too stubborn for that. Weirdly, I get the feeling that John is probably chuckling at me from the heavens at this moment. _Never give in do you, lass?_ I can almost hear him say.

Gordon steps forward and says goodbyes of his own. Gordon had always been very reclusive when it came to his feelings; he rarely opened up. So imagine the shock and sadness I felt when I saw that he too was beginning to break down. He didn't cry, but I could tell that he wanted to. Never had I seen such sadness in his eyes. I watch him take John's lifeless hand in his own and squeeze it. And then, all of sudden, we are all huddling together. Peter, Gordon and I, united in our grief, paying our respects to the man we had all admired so much.

* * *

In the afternoon, we find ourselves in a pub. We'd all somehow managed to face the Commons, even fighting back our own emotions to make tributes to him. All other business had been cancelled. I was glad. I wasn't in the mood for speeches and policy and all the other mundane things I had to do on a daily basis. My thoughts were with only John, and his family.

Even the people sat around us seem quiet. It was like a dark cloud had fell over not just London, but the entire country. We all drank in silence, barely even making eye contact with each other. I had stared at the table for so long that I could remember its every mark. Suddenly, Gordon smiles. I raise an eyebrow. "What is it?" I ask. Gordon shakes his head, but his smile remains. "Nothing" he replies, "It's just the last time John spoke to me, he was doing an impression of Margaret Thatcher". I'm smiling myself now, and so is Peter. We laugh for a little while, but soon our table falls silent. I take hold of my glass and sigh. "To John?" I propose, raising it. Gordon nods and raises his own. Peter follows suit. "To John" they both say. And at the clink of glass I begin to think. The next few years would be tough without John, but we'd get through them. And we'd get through them for him.


	11. Of Cigarettes And Ed Balls.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John's death, tensions are running high.

**May 28th, 1994.**

**BBC Studios, London.**

 

"Where did Ed disappear to?" I ask, looking up from my papers with a frown. The plump, bespectacled man opposite me raises a finger. "I'm here" Balls declares. I scowl at him momentarily. "I am, unfortunately, aware of that" I reply spitefully, "I meant _my_ Ed". Balls shrugs and scratches his chin with the end of his chewed pen. I study him for a second or two. Somewhere in there was the intelligence that had got him onto the Treasury team. Somewhere in there was the charm that had won Yvette Cooper over. Somewhere in there was an adviser I could work with contentedly. Such sides to Ed Balls' character seemed rather absurd to me. Nonetheless, I would have to work with him until the other, more competent Ed whom I liked and trusted arrived. 

"The interview starts at 11:30" Andy Burnham, a young researcher whom Tessa Jowell had leant to me, says, "You'll be called into the dressing room in around fifteen mimutes or so". I nod to him and sigh. I tap my fingernails on the armchair I'm sat in and run a hand through my hair. I wouldn't be surprised if one or two grey hairs began to appear in it. The days and weeks after John's death had been difficult. The media couldn't seem to understand that I was more focused on mourning my friend than worrying about the leadership election that we would soon find ourselves in the middle of. I had been picked to go onto the Daily Politics and explain this to Andrew Neil. How fun it would be.

"Are you alright?" Burnham asks, almost gingerly, "You seem tense". I emit another heavy sigh and look to him blankly. "Is my face giving it away? What a pity" I reply, perhaps rather too sarcastically, "I've been asked to go onto live television and answer questions about the successor of a man who hasn't even been put in the ground yet". Burnham and Balls look at me solemnly for a moment and bow their heads. Balls' eyes dart towards me, and in an instant I know he's about to say something irritating. "You could start plugging Gordon now" he speaks. Burnham gulps, and seems to almost sink into the walls of the room. I keep my breathing under control and try to avoid looking at either of them. "Balls, did anyone ever teach you the concept of mourning?" I ask in a monotomous tone, "John Smith and I were colleagues, but we were also friends, as you should well know. Do you honesty think I'm in the mood to start bugging someone up for the leadership so soon after I lost John? After _we_ lost John?". Balls considers that for a moment, and shuts up, deciding to get back to his papers rather than continuing. Burnham simply picks at his fingernails. I sigh, for the hundredth time that day it seems, and reach for my coat. I needed a cigarette before I went into that studio, and so without an explanation to the two advisers, I slip my coat on and walk out of the room.

I step outside, greeted at least by pleqsant weather. Visitors come and go from the centre every now and then, all too occupied to give even the quickest glance to the shadow minister sneaking away for a smoke. I move stay close to the vast concrete outerwall of the building. I rummage around in my pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. No sooner had I lit it and taken my first puff, a voice interrupts me. "Why must I always bump into people when I'm trying to smoke?" I groan. I wasn't the only one cowering at the edges of the building enjoying a cigarette out of public sight. "It encourages you to give it up, I suppose" an irritatingly familiar voice says. I only have to glance at him quickly to confirm my fears. Of all the people to bump into. My cousin, Tory by name and nature, a favourite of my father's but a right royal pain in the arse for me. "David!" I feign relief, "It's good to see you. You've been keeping well I hope?". He nods and rolls his cigarette between his fingers. "Very well, thank you" He says, "Things have been difficult, what with the Black Wednesday incident last year and Norman Lamont's sacking, but it's all beginning to pick up again". I'm tempted to laugh. The Tories were in dire straights at the moment. David was either ridiculously optimistic or ridiculously stupid. 

"Why are you here?" I ask, "Don't tell me Michael Howard is going on the Daily Politics too". David nods, almost smirking. I scowl slightly. "Should be an easy ride then, if I only have Howard to outsmart" I say quickly. David smirks again. It irritates me beyond words. I'd never gotten along well my cousin and his side of the family. They all seemed to be as arrogant as each other. My own family were probably just as arrogant, of course. "Cameron!" a voice calls out. We both stop smoking and look towards the source of the cry. An aging man who I recognise to be Michael Howard himself emerges from the building and waits patiently on the front steps. David drops his cigarette and stamps on it. "Your Lord and Master awaits" I say, "Of you pop". David shoots me an amused look and scurries off. "I'll see you soon, Elizabeth" he says, waving to me as he goes. Half-heartedly, I wave back. "I bloody well hope not" I mutter to myself, before resting my head against the wall and closing my eyes. I don't know why, but I get the sudden feeling I should give up smoking. Not just yet, of course. The days and months ahead were going to be far too stressful for that.


	12. At The Flat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth, Harriet, Andy, the two Eds and Charlie Whelan get going on Gordon's impending leadership campaign.

**7th June, 1994.**

**Westminster, London.**

 

The floor of my apartment was a fresh beige. However, now it was speckled with white. Paper after paper had been scattered around the place. It was a miracle we had actually made any ground. Our mission was simple. Ring around and write down the names of all those planning to back Gordon in the leadership campaign. We needed a good idea of what we had to go on. Blair had taken the decision to stand, and was, perhaps understandingly, making good ground. He was going to be our main rival in all of this; I could almost smell it.

"What about Straw?" I ask, laying back in my armchair for a moment. Whelan runs his finger down a list of names and narrows his eyes. "Blair" he tells me. I sigh. We were beginning to see a pattern now. Most MPs seemed to be turning to Tony now. I knew how Gordon had dreamt of winning the leadership of our party. The thought of Blair snatching it from under his nose made me quite bitter.

"There are still over a hundred yet to declare" Ed Miliband states optimistically, "Blair is too...new". I tap my fingers on the arms of my chair for a moment. "Well maybe that's the problem. He's new. He's different" I ponder aloud, "We've been stuck in the same gear since 1983. We need to be something fresh, not just the same old tune". Ed raises an eyebrow.

"You're not going to join Blair's campaign are you?" He asks, the look in his eye one of pure fear. I shake my head quickly. That wasn't at all my intention. "No" I say, "I only mean that we may have to try a little harder on the modernisation front". Whelan nods slowly. "Gordon will agree to that" he adds, "Blair is too radical, anyway. Gordon can change the party at a steady pace". By 'radical' I knew Charlie meant 'Tory'. I'd cussed him for calling certain Labour MPs Tories, and so he had resorted to using alternative words. "I'll put the kettle on" Burnham sighs, eyeing the mountain of names we had get to consult. I pat his arm as he walks past. "Bless you, Andy" I say. I could really do with a cup of tea at this moment.

Harriet and Balls are on the phone. The rest of us try not to talk too much for fear of disturbing them. We were all feeling rather down in the dumps, anyway. We weren't in the mood to have a laugh as we usually did. Suddenly, I hear the door of the apartment shut. "I'm back" George calls. "Shit" I mutter. Charlie looks up, but before he can speak I dash off towards the hall. 

George is hanging his jacket up and setting his bag down. He stretches and emits a yawn. Clipped to his belt I see a security pass for Tory Party HQ. I quickly pull it off before anyone can see it and stuff it into George's back pocket. "Hands, woman!" George exclaims with a smirk, "I've only just got through the door. I didn't realise you missed me that much". I roll my eyes and glance behind me.

"You are not a Tory, okay?" I inform him. George stares at my blankly. "It's a bit late in the relationship for this, Liz" he jokes. I tut and grab hold of his tie. Pulling him close, I speak quietly. "No, I mean _you are not a Tory_ ". George blinks and then nods slowly. "Oh" he says, "I see". Charlie's laugh can be heard sounding out from the living room. George straightens his tie and goes to grab his jacket again. I stop him. "You've just got in. Don't disappear already" I tell him, glad that he was home. George smirks that irritatingly attractive smirk of his. "You did miss me" he says smugly. I slap his arm and shake my head. "Shut up" I tell him, before taking his hand in my own and leading him into the living room. Harriet and Balls are still talking on the phone, but Charlie and Ed are doing nothing. They both look up as George and I walk in.

"This is George" I say, nervous at the thought of introducing my Tory boyfriend to a room full of Labour workers. Charlie gets to his feet and offers George a hand. "Charlie Whelan" he introduces himself, "Treasury team". I can see a twinkle in George's eye. He wanted to say something, I knew he did. I give him a small kick in the leg as a warning. "Pleasure to meet you" George says, shaking Charlie's hand. Ed is next in line. George shakes his hand and smiles kindly. "Ed" Ed says gingerly, "Ed Miliband".

Just then, Andy walks into the living room carrying a tea tray. He sets it down on the coffee table and looks at George in alarm. "Oh, sorry" he says, "Would you like a cup of tea as well?". George shakes his head.

"I'm quite alright, thank you" he replies, to which Andy nods and perches down on the sofa. "So what is it you're doing?" George asks curiously, folding his arms and scanning the room with his eyes. "We're doing a little ring around" Charlie informs him, "This leadership election is on the verge of turning into a massive cock up. We need to find out who's on our side". George nods. I monitor his facial expression carefully. I got the feeling he was about to say something.

"And by our side I presume you mean Brown?" George says. Charlie nods, his eyes narrowing by a matter of inches.

"What else?" he comments. George shrugs and moves over to the living room door.

"Well, I'm much more of a John Prescott kind of guy, personally" he says, and I try to stifle my laughter, "Good luck, anyway". And with that, he walks away, his head held high, _and I don't blame him one bit_.


	13. Blessed St Ian and His Red Mini.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth's youngest brother finally makes an appearance, and he has one or two things to say about his sister's decisions.

**15th June, 1994.**

**Beckley, Oxfordshire**.

Estate agents were so unbearably smarmy, yet undeniably clever. They could sell a cardboard box if the right idiot came along. Naturally, I am no sort of idiot, and so they couldn't pull any such tricks on me. I hadn't wanted to go along with this at all, but my mother had insisted, and I knew better than to argue with her. 'You need a house of your own in Oxford' she had said, flinging the property pages of our local newspaper my way, 'you can't keep coming to us all the time'. I couldn't disagree with that, in fairness. I was 23. Yes, I had my apartment in London, but I needed somewhere of my own in my constituency. I could afford it, after all, and I knew George wouldn't mind having a county retreat of sorts. London could be so very tiresome.

Mother is still chatting away at me as we leave the estate agents. She carries her little handbag close to her chest, her clothes perfectly pressed. Despite the wind, not a single hair seemed to fall out of place. My mother was nearing her 50s and still turning heads. Though, I feel I must add, most of those heads belonged to elderly country farmers. There were many of those in Oxfordshire.

"Another thing" my mother says, changing tack completely, "I have a note for you". I frown at her as we walk along the street, and watch as she pulls a small scrap of paper from the pocket of her fur coat. She hands it to me, and I read it slowly. Written on it is a number. Whose, I do not know. "What on earth is this about?" I ask, feeling thoroughly confused. My mother smiles almost proudly.

"A charming gentleman by the name of Lionel Barber called by the other day and asked me to give it to you" she explains, "I got the impression he was planning on taking you out for a drink, or something of that ilk". Lionel Barber. I'd heard that name before, but where I did not know. I shrug and slide the piece of paper into my own pocket. "I seem to remember a man of that name sending me a Christmas card last year" I tell her, "I'm awfully flattered, but I haven't a clue who he is". My mother sighs slightly. 

"He was really rather dashing, in my opinion" she continues, and I'm tempted to hand the number back to her for her own pleasure, "No George Clooney, by any means, but dashing nevertheless. He was quite a bit older than you, I think. About 26 perhaps? 27?". I can't help but be slightly curious. Obviously, I had no intention of pursuing this man, but it would be nice to at least know a little more about him.

"You could always ring him" Mother says, "I'm sure George wouldn't mind. He never complains when you go off drinking with that Peter Mandelson fellow". I bite back a chuckle. "Peter is a colleague, and _gay_ " I remind her. My mother considers that for a moment, before smiling and giving me a slightly nudge with her elbow. "You'll have to start arranging the wedding soon" she jests, and whilst I know she is joking, I can't help but feel that there is a more serious tone under the surface. I also get the feeling she is referring to George, rather than this Lionel Barber chap. 

My thoughts are interrupted by the pib of a horn. An old red Mini Cooper rolls up along the curb and stops beside us. My mother emits a small groan as the window is wound down. A pale man with short, curly red hair pokes his head out. His expression is solemn, but I can see in his eyes that he is happy to see us. "Would you like a lift?" He asks, and his accent is closer to English than Scottish. I step forward and open the passenger door before our mother can protest.

"Ian" I smile, "It's good to see you again". Ian returns my smile briefly, before turning his eyes forward. My mother clambers into the back of the car, her own expression one of mild disgust. "I do wish you'd buy a new car, Ian" she says, "Edward from the golfing club is selling his-".

"There is nothing wrong with this car" Ian argues, patting the steering wheel fondly. I chuckle under my breath. "How else is he to pick up Marxists, mother?" I joke, "A communist magnet, this thing". Ian shoots me a tired look. I knew the sort he was getting himself involved with at university. He had chosen to attend Hull university, rather than Oxford. Always one to break family tradition, that boy. I respected him for it a great deal. 

"I'd rather be a communist than a champagne socialist" Ian retorts, his eyes remaining on the road as we left the estate agents far behind us. My lips curl upward slightly. This was all in jest, naturally, but it wasn't going to stop me from really kicking the boot in. "You're every bit as privileged as me, thank you" I reply, "If anything I should be calling _you_ a champagne communist".

"I apologise for knowing more about socialism than you" Ian says, his tone still one of a tranquil nature. I scoff. "Which of us has a seat in Parliament?" I ask. Ian darts his eyes towards me momentarily. I wonder if our mother has fallen asleep in the back. Either that or she was waiting for the right moment to bang our heads together. "And which of us is in a relationship with a Conservative?" Ian quips, the humour draining from his tone slightly. I had always got the impression Ian didn't quite approve of George, which was a shame seeing as he was the only member of our family who felt that way.

"My relationships have nothing to do with my politics, thank you" I remind him. Ian scoffs this time. "If you're happy to share a bed with a man who would happily bleed the poor dry, then by all means" my brother bites, and this time I know he's being serious. I roll my eyes. Trust Ian to start an argument. He always had to resort to this high-and-mighty, libertine attitude of his. Blessed St Ian and his little red mini. 

"Don't be silly" I say calmly, "You know that's what George is like". Ian was having none of it, clearly. "He's a Tory" he affirms, "It's in his nature". I start to get angry now. 

"And do you know who else is a Tory?" I ask him sternly, and I can almost feel the frustration seeping into my voice, "Our father. And Nevin. And Fraser. And your grandparents. And your aunts and uncles". Ian considers that for a moment, before opening his mouth to reply. I stop him mid syllable.

 "Look, I want to see the back of Major just as much as I do" I tell him, less coolly this time, "Just don't start painting everyone with the same brush. As difficult as it may be for you to understand, the Tories are not murderers. I'm no murderer. Politicians and killers are not synonymous, Ian". A thoughtful silence descends over the car, and we continue our drive through the town and into the countryside that we all loved so dearly. The windscreen was dotted with rain, and the pane of glass to my left wobbled slightly under the pressure of the breeze outside. And amidst the weather, muffled by a battered green parka that was oh so typical of far-left activists, I hear him mutter. "Sometimes I really can't tell the difference". 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep thoughts for us all to mull over from Ian there :'). I wanted to get that thought out there, tbf. I needed Ian to stand out from the other characters some how.   
> Let me know how I'm getting on, anyway!! I'm free from school now so i should be able to update quite a bit!  
> I'd like to apologise again for the crappy grammar, I write this on my phone :)   
> Another quick note- I'm impartial btw. I'm not affiliated with any party


	14. Question Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth makes her Question Time debut.

**17th June, 1994.**

**Cheltenham, England.**

"Of all the places to go" I murmur as I step through the doorway of an ancient town hall, "Bloody Cheltenham". Ed hurries along at my side, pushing his round spectacles up his nose as he went. "Think about it from the positive side" he tells me, "You've never been on Question Time before. You're making yourself known". I nod to that. I was just in a rather grumpy mood, I suppose. A technician greets us and guides us into a small room, before closing the door behind themselves. And then Ed and I are alone, shut away in this small, over-privaleged corner of England, with nothing but a dingy mirror and damp walls to look at. "Well" Ed says, always determined to lighten the mood, "It's warm at least". I can't help but smile at him. My dear little Ed. Whatever would I do without him.

I pull up two folding chairs from the corner of the room and set them by the mirror. "So" I say, clearing my throat, "What are we going to be talking about?". Ed takes his seat and shuffles through his notes. "The leadership is bound to come up at some point" he tells me. I nod and tap my pen against my lips, deep in thought. "The ballot paper hasn't even been finalised yet" I ponder aloud, "We don't know who's running for definite". Ed shrugs.

"Then perhaps we shouldn't reveal anything" he suggests, "About backing Gordon, at least". I nod to him. It was probably for the best. The impending Labour leadership election was all there was on many people's lips, in political circles. Major was so dull and useless, even an event that had not yet happened was getting more attention. "But Dimbleby is clever" I reason, "And so is Hislop, for that matter. Private Eye once referred to me as Brown's little fairy, for fuck's sake, they must know". Ed furrowed his eyebrows at the ground and thought hard. He screwed his nose up so much his glasses almost lost grip. "Refuse to comment" he says eventually, "Just make a vague statement on how you think it's important we wait until the final list of candidates is announced, and how we should reserve all judgement until that time". I nod once more. Ed was once again on the same wavelengths as me. I inadvertently chuckle. Ed looks up from his notes, perplexed.

"You should stand yourself" I joke. Ed snorts and flicks a strand of brown hair from his dark eyes. "One day, maybe" he says quietly, and all of a sudden I'm narrowing my eyes. That was a leadership election I hoped to one day see, for sure. "Who else is on, by the way?" I say, wanting to change the subject.

"Well, Ian Hislop, as you know. Paddy Ashdown for the Lib Dems, Douglas Hurd for the Tories" Ed tells me, and I smile, already looking forward to the prospect of having a stab at Hurd, "And Alastair Campbell. He's an old Mirror man. He works for Today these days, I think". I tap my pen against my lips again and narrow my eyes. I was familiar with Campbell. I was sure I'd seen him at a few Labour functions in the past. All I knew for certain was that I had more enemies than allies on this particular panel. While I was on good terms with Hislop, we didn't see to eye to eye on everything. If anyone was going to pick me apart, it would be him. Ashdown was a good man, but not one I'd form any sort of coaltion with. And as for Hurd? Well, let us just say it was back to the usual Labour/Tory antagonisms as per.

Suddenly, there is a sharp knock on the door of our dingy little prison cell. Ed jumps and falls off his chair. I let out a small laugh, before hurrying forward and helping him up. "Miss Nelson?" Someone calls from the other side of the door, "We need you in the green room, now". I sigh and move over to the door. "Are you coming?" I ask Ed. He frowns, still dusting off particles of dirt from his suit, "Surely I should stay here?" He asks, "I'm just an advisor". I smile and open the door.

"And I need you to advise me" I tell him, walking past the technician and walking along the corridor, "Come along, Edward".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make Ed Elizabeth's best friend throughout this story. I though the idea of Elizabeth guiding him and watching him grow into a leader was quite nice, so I went with it! :)


	15. The Deal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth is ready for the fight of a leadership contest, but Gordon reveals something that may taint her spirit somewhat.

**18th June, 1994.**

**Dunfermline, Scotland.**

 

Gordon's constituency home was very much like his London home: crowded and filled with books. My own Oxfordshire residence was stocked to the brim with books, though unlike Gordon I had a library to keep it all contained. How Sheena put up with it I had no idea.

I step into the living room and smile despite myself. It was as cluttered as the rest of the house. "It really does amaze me, you know" I say, walking over to the window, "Your work is flawless and yet you live in a literary pig sty". The view was a basic one, but by no means unpleasant. Before me lay nothing but green. It was nice to get away from the city and get a look at the good old Scottish countryside which I had been so fond of as a child. There were times where I forgot that I had spent the first thirteen years of my life here. Was I really in a position to call myself a Scot anymore? I doubted it.

"You work in your ways, I work in mine" Gordon jokes, walking in carrying two cups of fresh tea. He sets them down on the coffee table and sinks into his armchair. "So what was it that was so urgent, then?" I ask, turning away from the fields and towards my old friend, "Six hours it took me to get from Cheltenham to here, so it better be bloody good". Gordon nods to the couch. I sigh and perch myself down on it. Was it something so astounding that I was likely to faint from shock? Gordon's expression was not a solemn one. In his eyes I saw only the usual fatigue and mild anger. "Well, there's this leadership business" he began. I peek up unintentionally.

"I gave you a decent plug on Question Time last night" I tell him, sipping at my tea, "You had best appreciate it when it airs". Gordon blinks and licks his lips. No 'Thank you, Elizabeth'?. No 'I appreciate it?'. Just that stare. That awkward, curious stare that is broken only by the shifty nature of Gordon's eyes. I narrow my own. What was he about to tell me? I didn't at all have a good feeling about it whatever it was.

"Liz" Gordon says finally, shifting closer to the edge of his chair, "I'm not standing for the leadership". I almost drop my tea. For safety's sake I set it down on the coffee table. My scrunch my hands up and keep them rooted by my side. "I beg your pardon?" I ask, wanting to be sure that I understood him correctly.

"I'm not standing for the leadership" Gordon repeats. I blink hard and shake my head in disbelief. He had better be joking. It was a pretty underwhelming joke, I had to admit it. I hadn't driven six hours through the night to hear this. "Since when?" I demand to know.

"Since last week" Gordon tells me, and despite my disgust at what he is telling me, I have to admire his honesty. He did not mince his words. Gordon Brown was not standing in that leadership election, and of that he was very sure. I want to remain calm. I didn't like the prospect of getting angry with Gordon, but I couldn't help it. I leave the couch and pace for a moment, arms crossed. I can feel his brown eyes tracing me. He doesn't speak, he only waits for the explosion to take place.

"Last week?" I ask him, wanting to be sure that I had this right. "Last week" Gordon repeats calmly. I growl under my breath and shake my head. "Oh, this is bloody brilliant this is" I snap, "Half way through the damn month and think now is the opportune time to pull out? I swear to God, Gordon, you'd better have a bloody good reason for this". I walk over to the window and huff. To think myself and the Treasury team had spent so long making all those phonecalls. I really was wishing it was a joke now. I turn around and notice the hint of guilt in Gordon's eyes. There was no joke there.

"I made a deal" Gordon says calmly, "With Blair".

"A deal? This is a political party, not a fucking business venture" I cry. Gordon winces slightly at the sharpness of my tone and holds his hands up as if in surrender. "Please, just let me explain" he insists, and I decide to listen to him, "Blair can modernise the party in ways I never could at the helm. He can appeal to the electorate in ways I never could. I'll stay on as Shadow Chancellor, and Chancellor should we win the next election". I furrow my eyebrows. It all seemed so idyllic to me. It was as if Blair was a young child again, laying awake at night plotting his future in linear order. Real life was not as easy as all this.

"You're every bit as electable as Blair" I remind him, because it's true. To me at least, anyway. Gordon chuckes lightly and shakes his head. "Not at the moment. Not at this point in the game" he replies, and I suddenly appreciate just how hard it must have been for him to give in as he did, "Blair says I'll still get my shot at it one day. God knows when that will be."

I worry. Patience was not exactly Gordon's strong point, something I could relate to whole-heartedly. Feeling relatively calm again, I move away from the window and sit back down on the couch. "So we're on Blair's side now" I speak quietly, as though it was some kind of curse. Gordon shakes his head and casts a gammy eye towards the greenery outside. "He has my support for in the leadership contest" Gordon says, before looking back to me, "That doesn't automatically mean he has yours". I think for a moment. The race now consisted of Blair, Prescott and Beckett. Prescott was alright, I suppose, but not leadership material. And Beckett was far too irritating for the job. I liked Blair, for as smarmy as he could often be. He seemed to have the same vision for a modern Labour Party as I. We would never be quite on the same page, but we were at least of the same book.

"Blair it is, then" I decide, and that is final. I reach for my tea and take a long sip. The past five minutes or so had made me rather thirsty. Gordon take up his own cup, and for a while we sit in silence. "Have you ever thought about it?" He asks suddenly. I frown at him.

"Thought about what?" I query.

"Being leader" Gordon confirms. I laugh at that and sink further down into the couch. "I pray that our party is never so desperate". Gordon chuckes, but from the corner of my eye I see him shrug and jerk his head. Fool. He didn't honestly believe that I stood a chance, did he? "I've no interest in the leadership" I iterate, because I don't and never have, "There are other ways of getting what you want". Gordon almost grumbles.

"You're starting to sound like Mandelson" He says, and I smile at him. I had spent a considerable amount of time around Peter. Perhaps one or two of his traits had rubbed off on me. That wasn't a bad thing. Was it? Whenever my thoughts turned to the fabled 'darker side' of Peter Mandelson, I was reminded rather sharply of John. John had been kind to Peter, but distant. He hadn't trusted him. John Smith will forever be one of the greatest men I had come across. Instinct told me to pay more attention to his reservations.


	16. Birmingham.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of a something we all knew was coming.

**22nd June, 1994.**

**Westminster, England.**

The Osborne's home was of a reasonable size, but still managed to be cosy. It was well-decorated, as you'd expect given the business of Sir Peter, and of subtle colour. I couldn't stand garishness, and so it had always suited me perfectly. The house was an environment I felt entirely comfortable in, despite the rarity of my visits nowadays.

"Would you like another drink, dear?" Felicity, George's mother, asked me, laying a hand upon the ornamental teapot sitting on the coffee table. I smiled at her and held forth my teacup. "Oh, please" I said, never one to turn down good tea. I thanked her and let the cup heat my hands for a while. "So how are things in the mad house?" Peter asks, leaning back in his armchair with a smile. I shrug and jerk my head. "As chaotic as ever" I answer, "There's little going on with Major, so all conversation seems to be dominated by the leadership contest. I'll be glad when it's all over, to be honest". Peter nods and let's out a small chuckle. "Quite" he says, "How do you fancy your chances in Blair's cabinet? From what I read in the papers, yourself and Mr Brown are allies of his". I fight back a snort. I'm tempted to tell Peter about the deal Gordon had decided to inform me about the other day. I was also tempted to repeat to him some of the many curses Gordon had used to describe Blair over the years. I didn't share in Gordon's distaste, at least not entirely.

"Steady on, Father" George pipes up, "He hasn't won yet". The Osbornes' we're so delightfully pragmatic. I enjoyed their company more than I cared to admit. "It's a forgone conclusion" Peter insists, "Beckett hasn't got it in her to win an election, and as for Prescott! Well, let's just say my little finger has more statesmanship than he has in his entire body". He was probably right, of course. I liked Beckett and Prescott, to an extent, but they were not at all in the league of Blair. "Perhaps you'll get Shadow Chancellor" Felicity comments kindly. I smile at her and raise my teacup to my lips. "Oh, no" I tell her, "I haven't the skill or experience for if. Gordon will almost certainly get that particular position. I'll take whatever it given to me. Though, naturally I expect a promotion". Peter looks at me almost proudly, before turning his eyes to George.

"You see, my boy, this is the standard you have to beat" he joked, "You'd best start now". George laughed and winked at me.

"You say that as though it will be a challenge" he retorts. We all laugh, but Felicity sighs. "If you hadn't of turned down that shot at Birmingham Yardley, you might already be on your way" she says into her teacup. An awkward silence descends on the room. I furrow my eyebrows slightly, while Peter and George keep their eyes fixed on the bottoms of their cups. Birmingham Yardley was a constituency that had held a by-election last year, after its incumbent MP fell ill. It was a relatively safe Labour seat, but it wasn't exempt from swings. Why would George be offered a 'shot' there? What did Felicity mean by it?

"I'm sorry?" I ask, eyebrows furrowing deeper by the moment. George remained silent, and so it was left to Felicity to explain. "Well, Central Office offered George the Conservative candidacy for the by-election there, didn't they?" She told me, speaking as though it was something that should be engraved in my memory by now. "George turned it down straight away. I told him he should have at least considered it, but there we go. Boys never listen, do they?". She chuckles, and I try to laugh along, but I see no humour in it. I turn to George and narrow my eyes at him. "No" I agree with his mother, "And they also have a habit of hiding things". George stiffens in his chair. He had suddenly turned as white as a sheet.

"Are you alright, George dear?" Felicity asks her son, "You look dreadfully pale. Would you like me to get you anything?". George sets his teacup down on the coffee table and gets to his feet. "No, no, but thank you, Mother" he hurries, "I think we'd better be going now". I finish my tea, before standing up and scowling at him. "Yes" I manage through gritted teeth, "I think we had".

The moment the front door was closed, and we were a sufficient distance away from the house, I turned on him. "Birmingham Yardley?" I cry, "When were you planning on telling me about that?". George sighs and holds his hands up defensively. "I didn't think it was that important" he responds. "You're offered the chance to stand for Parliament and it's not important?" I bite back. George walks past me and continues down the drive toward the car. "Why are you getting so upset about it?" He asks, irritation seeping into his voice, "It was last year. It hardly matters". I catch up with him and look him in the eye.

"When my Conservative boyfriend is given a shot at being an MP, I'd think it best to be told before hand" I tell him angrily, "Why didn't you tell me? Couldn't we have talked about it?". George sighs again, but it's one of pure frustration this time. "There's nothing to talk about!" He snaps, "I turned it down and got on with my work. That was it. Everything carried on as normal". I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down. I was overreacting again, wasn't I? I just didn't appreciate being kept in the dark, especially in matters such as this. What if George had said yes? Would he have come clean then? What if he had won? These questions were of little use now, and yet they flew around my head like I don't know what.

"Why did you turn it down?" I ask calmly, "You've always wanted to be an MP". George blinked at me. "You don't think I wanted to take their offer? Believe me, I did, but I couldn't". He turns away from me and unlocks the car. "But why?" I question. George turns back to face me with such speed that I'm almost knocked off my feet.

"Because I'm with you" he states plainly, anger lacing each syllable, "How could it have worked?".

"You had your dreams long before you had me" I remind him, "If I'm becoming a liability, just-". George groans and looks up to the sky as if looking for guidance from above. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Liz" he cries, "You may be content to put your career before all else, but I'm not. Did it ever occur to you that there may be more to life than high office and power? Yes, I want all of that too, but not as much as I want you. I don't need political success to be happy. You do". I stare at him, mouth inadvertently gaping. He was right, and I was a fool to have not seen it. Yet i still wanted to argue.

"I'm not going to apologise for being ambitious" I tell him straight, trying to disguise the emotion in my voice as best as I could. George looked to me with an expression of exasperation. "And I'm not asking you to" he replies, "It's something you've always wanted, more than anything else, and that's fine. I'm content to stay as I am, so long as I still have you". I take his hands in my own and lower my voice.

"You shouldn't just throw about your ambition, especially not for me" I say, and I mean it, "If I've ever put my career before you, I'm sorry. I can change, I know I can. I do love you, George, don't ever think I don't". George looks down at me for a moment, his eyes softening. There is a real mix of emotion within them. Still one or two hints of frustration, but they were mainly overshadowed by adoration. And sadness. Pure, unadulterated sadness. I found it made me sad.

"I've never once doubted that you love me" George said, loosening his grip on my hands, "But it will never be as much as I love you". And with that, he let go of my hand and climbed into the car. I stood there, in the cold of night, alone and quiet, for several moments before walking over to the other door and getting in. This was a conservation we had been leading up to for some time, I felt. I was glad that it had come, but also resentful. Could we not have stayed as we are? Was the setup we had managed for so long no longer practical?

George's words were a wake up call for me. I wanted so desperately for him to be wrong, but, as ever I suppose, he was right. As we drove home in silence, with only the sound of the radio breaking the ice, I began to hate myself. I had been selfish. So very selfish. I had put the ambitions of myself before those of the person who had supported me and loved me throughtout my adult life. George deserved someone better, someone who would appreciate him and let him reach his full potential. I wanted to keep him near and never let him go, but I also wanted to free him from the burden that I had become. I was tempted to tell him to stop the car so I could get out and walk to Gordon's or Peter's, but I couldn't. Not tonight. We didn't have long left, and I realised that now. I would relish this car journey as the wake up call that I would undoubtedly was.

And as I glance out of the window and see the building and people of London fly by, I can't help but wonder whether Birmingham Yardley missed out on more than they knew. 


	17. PMQs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group prepare for PMQs with their new leader.

**27th July, 1994**

**House of Commons**

A month later and I find myself in the office of the new Leader of the Opposition, sat in the armchair to the left of his desk, drumming my fingers on the arms as the three men in front of me discuss strategy. I also find myself of elevated status. Tony's election as leader had resulted in a promotion. I was now my party's Shadow Chief Secretary to the Treasury. I was now, effectively, Gordon's right hand man. Or woman, I should say. There had been some objections to my appointment, of course. I was still only twenty-three years old. Most MPs didn't enter the Shadow Cabinet until they were at least thirty. It makes me rather proud, and quite smug at times, to think I've achieved more in my two short years as an MP than most sat opposite me have achieved in forty.

"So what's our main point of attack going to be?" Tony ponders, leaning back in his chair. He glances my way. "Liz?" He asks, eyes hopeful. It felt odd to hear him call me Liz. That was a nickname typically reserved for my family, George and Gordon. Nonetheless, I put aside my pettiness and answered. "The privatisation of British rail" I say, "We all know that's what he's planning. Grill him on that". Tony thinks for a moment.  
"The media don't seem to have picked up on it just yet, so perhaps it would be best if we raised the issue" he replies, "No doubt Major will claim it will boost passenger numbers, or something along those lines". It was best to guess at what your opponent might say, I suppose. It wouldn't be constructive to oppose the plan simply because it was one of privatisation. "Hint at the possibility of subsidies" I suggest, "Something like that". Gordon nods. Peter rolls his sleeve up slightly and glances at his watch. "Quarter-to" he says, "We'd better go over". Tony claps his hands together and slips his jacket on. Peter opens the office door, and one by one we file out. There are one or two advisors waiting outside. I notice they're joined by a face I recognised but couldn't place.  
Tony and Gordon walk ahead, heads lowered slightly as they talked in hushed voices. I see Peter give the man a curt nod, before following after the other two along the corridor. I walk at the back of the group. Soon I notice the man is walking along with me. "You don't remember me, do you?" He says, and there is certainly something in his voice I recognise.  
"You must forgive me" I say politely, "Faces are not my strong point". He offers a hand as we walk. I give it a quick shake. "Alastair Campbell" the man tells me, and inadvertently I let out a long 'oh'. I knew he was familiar. "Our new communications man? A pleasure to meet you properly at last". Alastair furrows his eyebrows slightly.  
"We have met before" he informs me, and I feel dreadfully rude for not remembering, "At conference last year. And when Tony was elected". I nod, despite having very little recollection of what it is he's talking about. "Anyway, we're glad to have you with us, Alastair" I tell him, wanting to push this business of forgetfulness aside, "Welcome to the team". Alastair smiles.  
"Smile while you can" he says, only in a half-tone of mockery. I raise an eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean?" I ask. It seemed to be a rather peculiar thing to say. "Let's just say that we're not always going to get on" Alastair says, speaking entirely honestly, "Tony says you've got quite a temper". I blink at him. It was true, I suppose. Even so, I didn't see why it was relevant. "I'm presuming you do too" I say, predicting what it was he was about to say, "You needn't worry about getting into any sort of altercation with me. Arguing is the backbone of politics". Alastair jerks his head slightly. "No doubt it's best to aim it all at the other side" he says, "It's when it's directed at your own side that things get a little difficult".

 

The Commons was buzzing when we sat down. Some Tory minister whose name I had forgotten stood at the dispatch box making a speech no one seemed to be interested in. To his right sat John Major, talking quietly with Ken Clarke. Every now and then they would glance towards us. Prescott, recently elected as our Deputy Leader, folded his arms with a grin and let out a small chuckle. "Terrified!" He exclaimed, much to the delight of many on our benches. Tony readied himself, glancing through his notes one final time. I sat one space down from him, flanked by Gordon and Jack Straw. Where Peter had disappeared to I had no idea.

A few moments later, the minister sat down, and Madame Speaker rose. "Questions to the Prime Minister" she called. "Question number one, Madame Speaker" an MP behind me said, and soon Major was rising to his feet. I liked to think there was a hint of fear behind those dull eyes of his. I had not always been the best of supporters to Tony, but in this moment I was entirely loyal. Prescott patted him on the shoulder as the first question was answered. I leant across Gordon and did the same. "Good luck" I say, and I mean it. Tony flashes me one of his usual Cheshire Cat-like grins. His expression turns to a much more solemn one when he turns to Gordon. They nod at one another curtly, the faintest hints of smiles seeping on to their lips. "Tony Blair" Boothroyd calls, and all of a sudden we're cheering. I hear the rusting of order papers and the stamping of feet. Tony gets to his feet and steadies himself before the dispatch box. I glance at him, before turning my eyes towards the government benches. The volume of support our side had given their new leader seemed to disturb the Tories slightly, as though it was something new to them. No doubt it was with a leader like Major. How I pitied them. Our chances with John Smith at the helm were great.

In my own naïve, selfish way I couldn't help but think our chances with Tony would be even greater. 


	18. Cliche Conversations with Andy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth takes one of her advisers with her on her way to an interview with John Humphrys, only to end up discussing something entirely apart from politics.

**18th August, 1994**

**One of the Many Cars travelling through London.**

Andy was fairly tense, for reasons beyond my knowledge. He held his briefing notes close to his chest, binder squashed flat against the baggy grey suit he wore on most days. I darted my eyes in his direction. I hear him roll down the car window to his left. "Whatever is the matter, Andy?" I ask, hoping my own irritation wouldn't seep into my voice. He turns to me, as pale as a sheet. I was sure that soon he would begin to blend in with the car seat. "Oh, it's nothing" he insisted. I tut at him.

"Clearly" I quip, "I may be your boss, Andy, but I also consider myself to be your friend". Andy smiled briefly, before reverting his expression to one of sheer terror. He relaxes his grip on his binder for a moment and turns his large eyes to mine. "It probably seems so silly" he says, "But, well, I have a _date_ tonight". I raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, really?" I ask, "And who is the lucky lady?". Andy looks to his feet sheepishly. A small tint of red appears on his cheeks, and he smiles despite himself.

"Her name is Marie" he tells me, "I've known her since university. I have been interested in her since then, but I've only very recently plucked up the courage to do anything about it". I can't help but smile slightly. I was a sucker for this sort of thing, no matter how 'cold' or reserved I may present myself in the public eye. There was nothing like an adorable, cliche love story. "What are you planning on doing?" I ask, dying to know more.

"I was thinking of taking her to the new Italian place in Camden" Andy answers, "She likes Italian food". I nod.

"Well, it's always best to start with something they actually _like_ " I say, "I'm sure it will go swimmingly". Andy grins nervously.

"I hope so" he says, "I really do like her you know, Liz. I can't say I've ever felt so strongly about anyone. Do you know what I mean?". I look out of the car window and narrow my eyes. It was relatively early, with the sun still rising over the many buildings and sculptures of this magnificent city. Parliament was in recess for the summer, but life still continued in the city. There was little rest for the wicked, as they say.

"Yes, I think I do" I say, secretly wanting to say as little as possible on this particular subject. I was hoping Andy would give up this conversation, but to my dread he continued. I liked Andy, and had quite a degree of trust in him. I wasn't, however, quite sure that he was ready to hear of the truth about the man I lived with. Perhaps vagueness would be best in this situation.

"How long have you been with George?" Andy asks, and I know he doesn't mean to be intrusive. I did like Andy, as I say, and so I was keen to avoid bluntness.

"Six years" I answer, my mind involuntarily drifting back to that evening at Fenton House in '88, "We met at a big ball. Another of those ridiculous upper-class social functions. He looked so terribly out of place, in his baggy blazer and his crooked bow tie. I don't know what it was that drew me to him. I suppose we were both just detached from the world we had been born into". Andy looks at me, a hint of intrigue in his eye.

"Six years? Blimey" he says, as if it was some great feat, "I hope Marie and I last that long". I chuckle lightly and shake my head.

"Steady on" I remind him. Andy nods quickly and falls quiet for a moment. I turn my gaze forward, slowly but surely drifting into my own thoughts. I knew I should be preparing for my interview, but I couldn't help but feel slightly preoccupied. I get the impression that Andy isn't quite finished. I suppose I couldn't blame him for being interested. I wasn't too keen on the idea of being some sort of expert on matters of the heart, but there we go.

"Any plans to settle down?" Andy asks, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I have the sudden urge to just spill all.

"Well, to be honest, the thing is-" I begin. There is a sudden ringing sound by my side. Andy jumps slightly in his seat and roots around in the bag in between us. He pulls out a thick black object, a mobile phone typical of the 90s. He passes it to me, and I raise it to my ear. "Hello?" I ask. The voice on the other end of the line is a familiar one.

"Liz? It's Fraser" I hear my younger brother speak, "You need to come home as soon as possible". I arch an eyebrow. There is a hint of urgency in his voice. A small hint of panic grows in my mind. Had something happened?

"What's going on?" I question, desperate to know what it was that was troubling him, "I'm on my way to a Radio 4 interview". Fraser sighs and pauses for a moment.

"Your interview can wait" he tells me plainly, "It's Father. His heart...it's failing again". My eyes inadvertently widen, and my free hand grips the car seat. Out of the corner of my eye I see a concerned expression grow on his face. I drop the phone next to me and lean forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. He turns his head slightly but keeps his eyes fixed on the road. "I'm ever so sorry, but you need to turn back" I tell him, "Take us to London Euston". Andy looks to me, alarmed.

"The station?" he cries, "Why?". I gulp and lean back in my seat, quite tempted to just close my eyes and sink into the damn thing. My mind drifted off to that fateful day in May. Like John, my father had a history of heart problems. He'd never been admitted to hospital because of them, however. "It's my father" I tell Andy, determined to compose myself and remain strong no matter how worried I may feel internally, "He's very ill. He's very ill and he needs me".


	19. A Culmination of Events.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable happens.

**27th August, 1994.**

**Westminster, London.**

My father was in a stable condition. He was tucked up in bed in an old hospital back home in Henley-Upon-Thames when I left him, surrounded by doting nurses, most of whom he would no doubt start flirting with once he regained consciousness. I was terribly worried about him, and had hardly slept a wink. It was a good job parliament had convened for the summer; I wasn't sure I could face the Commons on such an empty tank. George had been rather occupied himself. Why, I had little idea. He didn't seem to tell me much any more. As if, ever since learning about his debacle with Birmingham Yardley, it was something to be kept hidden. It made evenings really rather awkward. I would sit there, in the living room, cup of tea in hand, and just watch him sometimes. "Have you had a good day?" I'd ask. He'd simply shrug, his eyes fixed on his papers. Slowly but surely it was getting me down. I'd been tempted to confide in Andy about all this that other day in the car. Instead I find myself telling all to Charles, who sits on the sofa opposite me clenching a mug of coffee.

"I'm sure it will all sort itself out eventually" he tells me, and I know he means to be reassuring, "Anyway, I've got good news". I perk up a bit and tilt my head slightly.

"Oh yes?" I query, looking forward to hearing a bit of lighter news. It had been all doom and gloom for too long now. Charles flashes a grin my way and sets his empty mug down on the coffee table. I can see the excitement in his eye.

"I've been asked to go onto Have I Got News For You" he tells me, and instantly I begin to smile. Have I Got News For You had been running for about four years now. It had quickly become the go-to Friday night show for many interested in current affairs. They often sailed quite close to the wind, and had built a reputation for 'telling it like it is'. Guests varied from general celebrities to comedians. And politicians, it seemed. Charles was an unusual politician, in that he also managed to be an ordinary human being. Few in the Commons were quite as warm and witty as Charles, I had found. "Excellent!" I cry, beaming at him, "I look forward to that particular episode". Charles nods.

"I'm sure you'll get on there one day" he says, and in a way I hope he's right, "You've already made it onto Spitting Image, so I doubt Have I Got News For You is far away". My expression freezes for a moment. _You've already made it onto Spitting Image. What?_

"I'm sorry?" I ask, feeling rather bemused. Charles bites his lip before laughing loudly. I wondered what had tickled him so. I dread to think what it was Spitting Image had done with me. "You're a puppet now" Charles reveals, "Do you feel accomplished?". I giggle despite myself and nod curtly.

"Very much so" I reply, "Never mind being elected as the youngest MP since 1880, this is my real life-time achievement".

"You should see what they've done with you" Charles went on, "Your puppet isn't quite as...obscure as Thatcher's, naturally. You're presented as a sort of pet, perhaps almost a guard, perched on Brown's shoulder". I laugh. Nothing original there. If I wasn't Brown's monkey, I was Brown's child. Or, if it was Christmas, _Brown's fairy_. Our little reverie was interrupted by the clicking of the lock on the front door. My face falls slightly, which doesn't go unnoticed by Charles. He gets to his feet as the door of the living room door opens. George strides in, coat under arm, purple bags rimming his dark eyes. I hadn't noticed just how tired he was looking before.

"George!" I smile, "You're home early. Good day?". He throws his coat down on the spare armchair and sighs. He looks at me, brows furrowed, an exasperated expression on his face. I shoot him a sympathetic look. "That answers my question" I add, "Tea?". George brushes past me into the kitchen.

"I'll go" he says, "Though you can join me if you'd like. I've something to talk to you about". Charles' eyes dart between the two of us.

"Should I go?" he asks, reaching for his jacket. I shake my head at him and gesture for him to sit down.

"No, no" I insist, "You stay right there. We won't be long, I'm sure". George disappears into the kitchen and starts to fiddling about in the cupboards for a clean mug. I look to Charles for a short moment, as if for help. Whatever it was that George needed to talk to me about, it was rather serious. I follow through and shut the kitchen door behind me.

* * *

 

"Remind me- why are we having this conversation _now_?" I ask, hands on hips, expression unintentionally stern. George drops the spoon he'd been using to stir his tea into the sink and rounds on me. He sighs irritably. "What have I just told you?" he snaps, "They're promoting me to _head to the unit"_. I still fail to see the point in this. I blink at him in response, to which George sighs again.

"Don't you understand? I'm making it in my party, and you're making in yours" he says, "One of these days, someone is going to _click_. It won't be good for you, and it won't be good for me". I scoff.

"Where has this come from all of a sudden?" I cry, feeling quite stunned by this sudden outburst, "What are you getting at, George?". He sighs and recedes slightly, a hand running through his thick brown curls. He leans back on the sink and looks at me with the same exasperated expression he'd sported earlier. "You know I love you, Liz, and I doubt I'll ever love anyone quite as much" he says, "But it will never be enough". My brows remained furrowed. I didn't like the direction in which this conversation was going. Not at all. "I still don't understand what it is you're getting at" I say, determined to keep my voice strong. Now George looks sad more than anything.

"This is difficult for me to say, and don't for a second think otherwise" he begins, voice uncharacteristically weak, "Perhaps it's time to call it a day". Finally. It's out. I can tell he's been meaning to say such a thing for many days, perhaps weeks. I had a feeling that it was coming. I felt I should have prepared myself for it. Still, the words were cutting. I stood my ground, of course, and prayed that my expression conveyed as little expression as possible. "Right" I say, struggling to find the right words, "Yes. Yes, I suspect you may be right". George nods silently.

"Liz-" he begins. I turn and open the kitchen door.

"I think perhaps I should just check on Charles" I say, the air in that room suddenly turning volatile. I'd never been so desperate to air. I was tempted to check the thermostat and see if someone had been fiddling with it. Charles gets to his feet again as I step into the living room. He notes the grave expression on my face and offers me a smile. I'm tempted to just skip past him and crawl into bed and stay there. "Everything okay?" he asks, knowing full well that the reality of the situation was entirely the opposite. My eyes drift to the new packet of cigarettes lying on the coffee table.

"Fancy a breath of fresh air?".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a love story, and so George had to go! I'm sorry, guys :))


	20. Typically Busy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth's day-to-day life charges on despite her mood.

**11th September, 1994.**

**Beckley, Oxfordshire.**

The past week or so had been terrible. My father was still in hospital, in a stable condition. He'd even begun to perk up a bit. Then again even on the verge of death he'd flirt with his nurses. I was glad he was recovering, of course, yet my mood was still a considerably dark one. I had been stuck in a spiral of headaches and sleep-deprivation for a number of days now. I'd even been sick a few mornings running. Parliament was due to resume shortly; I wasn't at all sure I was up to it. Perhaps returning to work would distract me?

I won't lie. George's departure had effected me much more than I let on. Often, when I was on my own doing paperwork or reading a book, my mother would try and mollycoddle me, serving me slices of freshly baked chocolate cake and hot tea as if such things would comfort me. I wasn't sure I needed comforting. I certainly didn't want it. I try not to get irritated with people, but in a family such as this I find it virtually impossible. Ed's arrival on the morning of the eleventh was a welcome change. I was just leaving the house as he arrived, in his usual round spectacle-colourful tie combo.

"You're early, Ed" I greet him, shutting the front door behind me and slipping my hands into my coat pockets. It was usually a bit nippy at this end of the county, but even more so now that summer was coming to an end. Ed stops half way up the drive and waits for me to walk to him. "I thought I'd get the earlier train" he tells me, expression as bright as ever, "Where are we going?". I can't help but smile. We. Bless him. He really was the greatest of friends that man. Sometimes I felt as though it should be Ed who is the MP and I who should be the adviser. "I've got a constituency surgery in an hour. I thought I'd go down to the village to get a few things sorted and then I'd get the bus up to Henley" I say as we begin to walk away from the house and down the lane. Ours was a house detached from the rest of the village. We'd always tried to stay connected to the local community, of course. Beckley was a small place. Small communities often meant a great feeling of togetherness.

"Say, when was the last time you got in touch with Central Office? They've been on at me to meet a few members of the NEC to discuss policy and the like, but whenever I try to call to enquire as to when they want me to conduct those meetings, I get no reply" I ask, as it had been irritating me for quite some time now. Ed pulled a face. That was often Ed's way of expressing his opinion on something. It was both odd and amusing.

"They're busy with conference preparations at the moment. Tony has been very stern with them, apparently" Ed informs me, "He wants conference to go as smoothly as possible. No cock-ups with the prompter, sensible seating arrangements. He's even got on at them about the colours for the stage". I jerk my head. Tony had been very keen on image, I had found. Everything had to be as impeccable as possible. I was all for professionalism, but sometimes I found he could be a bit over the top. Alastair did little to discourage him, of course. Alastair seemed to be behind most of that which Tony said and did. Not that I disliked either of them, of course.

"It's Tony's first conference as leader. You know how driven he is in this. He wants to really change this party. If it means being picky about the flowers, or whatever it may be, then fine" I reply, eyes casually running over the landscape before me. Soft greens, subtle browns and golden yellows. Deep rolling hills divided by pale stone walls, with the occasional dots of white sheep thrown in. It was most beautiful here. With all that had been going on lately, I had forgotten. "How is Gordon's mood, by the way? I haven't seen him for over a week now" I add. Again, Ed pulls a face. I find it a challenge to interpret quite what he means.

"Not good" he tells me glumly, "Most days, he's perfectly fine, but he gets in such moods sometimes. He's like a cross between a pit bull and a tank". I laugh.

"Don't tell him that, or you definitely will see his angry side" I chuckle, "He'll brighten up eventually. He just needs time to adapt, that's all. Up until a few months ago, he thought the person organising that conference would be him". Ed bites his lip.

"I suppose so" he says, before freezing for a moment and furrowing his brow, "What is that noise? Can you hear that? It's getting closer?". I look around and roll my eyes. I grab him by the sleeve and drag him to the side of the line. A few moments later, a tractor drives by, stopping just a few feet after us. Ed looks at it, almost in fascination. I roll my eyes again and laugh. "City boys. Who needs them?" I quip. Ed shoots me one of his typically goofy smiles and takes a step forward to inspect the vehicle a little closer. Anyone would think he hadn't come across one before. I walk to the front of the tractor and look in to see who was driving. I am greeted by a slightly toothy, but nonetheless charming, smile.

"Good morning, Miss Nelson! You're out and about early today" Jack Crown, a man whose family had lived on one of the local farms owned by my father for many years. I smile at him kindly. I found the Crowns to be rather nice people. Perhaps a bit brash and indelicate, but undoubtedly lovely. "There's little point in staying in bed on a morning as pleasant as this. Besides, I've got business in the village" I tell him. With one swipe of a large, hairy arm, he brushes the papers, hay and dirt covering the seat next to him away. He pats it and nods to the distance ahead.

"I'm headed that way. I can give you and your friend a lift if you like" Jack offers, and I can already tell he was going to insist no matter what I say. I nod to Ed and smile at Jack.

"You're very kind" I tell him earnestly, clambering up to join him. It would be a tight squeeze, but we would all get in somehow. I offer a hand to Ed as he struggles to climb up. His glasses are a bit askew as he settles, or attempts to at least, in his seat. Tractors weren't designed to be carriers of people, of course. Still, it was only a short journey. Anything to save my little legs. I felt my Scottish relatives would be repulsed to hear of my laziness. "A bloke was asking after you the other day. Came into the pub he did and started asking Don at the bar where he might find you. Apparently he'd already been up to the house, to no avail it seemed". Perhaps it was a constituent in need of advice? Or perhaps another Mail wonk after an interview with my family?

"Have you any idea who it was?" I ask. Jack shakes his head.

"I didn't catch his name. Smart bloke he was, all suited nice and proper. Not quite up there with your lot, I don't think, but he certainly weren't from around these parts" he continues, and I am still non the wiser, "Don said he should try ringing your office. He looked quite disheartened when he left, as if he'd been after you for a while". I furrow my eyebrows and shrug. It seemed rather silly to start asking about the village having not rung the office first. If he was indeed after an interview or advice, the office would be the obvious place, surely?

"Well, will this do?" Jack asks, stopping the tractor for a moment. We were right on the outskirts of the village now. A swift trip down the pass between the solicitors and the pub and we would be there. Ed hops out of the tractor and offers me a hand. I swipe it away and jump down, not particularly gracefully. "Thank you, Jack" I say, which Ed repeats, "I'll see you around". Jack starts the engine again and continues to trawl down the lane. He waves as he goes by. "Take care, love" he calls. I lead the way down the pass and into the heart of the village. For a place so small, it was positively teeming. Of course compared to a place like London, this would barely be a ripple in the ocean.

"Oh yes, I've just remembered" Ed says, starting slightly as if surprised by his memory, "Going back to the topic of conference, I've got the date for your speech". I had almost forgotten about that. I'd made speeches to conference in the past, but not as a certified member of the shadow cabinet. "Yours will be the speech leading up to Gordon's. Wet the delegates' appetites with a little economics, so to speak" Ed tells me, "It's arranged for the fourth of October. Tony's will be the day after". I nod and make a mental note of it. I would no doubt begin writing it soon. Knowing the over-active nature of my brain, it would be near completion by the time I returned home. I turn my mind from conference for a moment to refocus on the agenda of the day.

"Right" I say, stopping to think for a moment, "Bank first, I think. In fact, I wonder if I might just pop into the pub for a second". Ed follows me with a confused expression on his face.

"It's a little early for a drink, isn't it?" he asks. I slap him gently on the arm.

"Don't be silly" I tell him, "I'm going to ask Don about that man Jack talked about". Ed follows me into the pub, a distinctly threatened look now forming in his eye. He truly was a city boy if the sight of several burly men drinking at a bar frightened him. He had been a student of Oxford just as I had. I often wondered what it was Ed had done to occupy his free time. I was no frequent attendee of pubs, but I could at least enter one without feeling the need to grab a can of pepper spray. "He's probably left by now" Ed says.

"You're probably right. Still, it doesn't hurt to ask" I reply, looking around for any sign of Don. A man of that size and stature was hardly one that can be easily missed. Sure enough, he pokes his head above the bar, damp rag draped over his shoulder. He brushes the dust of the pumps before him and begins to whistle a merry tune. "Good morning, Don" I say, walking up to the bar. The barman looks up and smiles at me.

"Ello there, Miss Nelson" he says heartily, "What can I do for you?". I make sure I keep an eye on Ed. I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to hold my hand in a moment. He'd never looked so out of place. It wasn't exactly my environment either, in all honesty. It was a dark place, and stank, as you might expect it to, of tobacco and gin. "I wondered if you might help me solve a little mystery" I begin, "Jack Crown says a man came in here the other day asking after me. Apparently you spoke to him". Don stops what he's doing for a moment and thinks to himself quietly. Suddenly, he clicks his fingers in the air and nods. "Aye, I remember now" he says, "Dressed in grey 'e was. His expression weren't much brighter either!". He chuckles to himself.

"Did you ask his name?" I question, keen to know which newspaper was after me now. It was convinced this person was a journalist. They were getting so much more sneaky these days. Actually ringing the secretary of an MP was far too simple these days. They actually had to venture out and track them down themselves, perhaps taking a few quotes from passing residents in an attempt to find some dirt. No doubt this mystery man had paid a visit to our local priest to ask what I had said in confession. Such was their arrogance sometimes.

"Oh, now let me think" Don says, going into another deep spiral of thought. I dart my eyes towards Ed to check that he was still standing upright. He seemed to have found his feet a little now, but still made sure there was plenty of distance between himself and the group of men drinking a few metres away. Again, Don snaps at the air. Remembering even the most basic details was a feat of great meaning to him, it seemed. "Aye, it's come to me now" he says, "A Mr Barber he was. Mr Barber".

"Yes?" comes a voice from behind. Before I even have a chance to process the name, which I am sure I have heard before, we are interrupted. Both Ed and I turn to see who it was. There, in the doorway of the pub, stands a man I had never seen before. He was wore a grey pinstripe suit and a brown overcoat. In his top pocket he held a single pen, under his arm a newspaper hot off the press. He even looked like a journalist, if that was possible. Either that or a detective from the 1930s. All that was missing was gelled hair, a hat and a lit cigarette. I see Don straighten himself up from behind the bar.

"'Ello again, sir" he says, eyeing him with the suspicion that was oh so typical of folk around here, "Would you still be looking for Miss Nelson, by any chance?". He looks at Don with sharp blue eyes, before turning to me. There is recognition in them. "Yes, but it appears I have found her now" he says, before stepping forward and offering his hand. Suddenly, he has a smile on his face. He had looked most stern before. "Lionel Barber" he says, as polite as can be, "I'm pleased to have met you at last". I return his smile weakly.

"I would introduce myself but it appears you already know much about me" I say, "I must say, calling on my family home was a bit of a stunt. Were you not aware that MP's had offices?". I sense Ed shifting about on his feet nervously. I clear my throat and make another attempt at a smile. I was being too sharp with this man.

"I wanted to meet you on unofficial terms, if you understand my meaning" Mr Barber explains. I furrow my brow.

"I'm not sure I do" I reply bluntly.

"Well, I didn't want to ring your office and lure you on the false pretense of an interview or a constituent in trouble" he says, "I thought if I were to meet you, it would be best done on these terms". Again, my eyebrows furrow. This is very peculiar indeed.

"So you're not a journalist?" I ask, feeling quite betrayed by this man's attire and manner. Mr Barber chuckles lightly and scratches the back of his head.

"Well, yes. I am, actually" he admits, "I work at the Financial Times". I did read the FT every now and again. Perhaps I had come across his name in its pages at some point. I'd certainly come across him before. "I'm not after an interview, though" he adds hurriedly. This time my eyebrows raise rather than furrow.

"So why exactly did you come looking for me?" I query, "I'm still rather confused by all this". A softness fills the man's eyes for a moment, the sharpness of their blue being dulled by something that vaguely resembled fondness.

"I just wanted to meet you" Mr Barber says, and for a moment he sounds like a teenager addressing his favourite pop star, "I hear quite a bit about you in the papers nowadays. I wanted to find out if the real Elizabeth Nelson is as interesting a character as the one the papers portray". I am quite tempted to scoff, but I feel I shouldn't mock the man. I couldn't help but feel ever so slightly confused, but his dedication in trying to, well, essentially corner me was, in a very odd way, flattering.

"Well, it's most odd" I admit, and to that Mr Barber laughs and bows his head, "But I suppose I'm flattered to have inspired such interest".

"You think me rather silly" he says with a nod, "You're not wrong, I suppose, but you are a woman in your early twenties who defeated a member of the Cabinet and rose to the front bench without trace. You can't blame a man for being intrigued". I glance back and look to Ed. He shrugs at me and smiles.

"It's refreshing to find a man who is interested in my career rather than my legs" I quip, to which I spot Ed grin. Very often I ranted to him about the issue of sexism in politics. It was particularly rampant in older backbenchers, I had found. From wolf-whistling at me in the lobby to patronising conversations in the bar. I sometimes wished that the statues of the suffragettes in Whitehall would spring alive and march down to strangle them all.

Suddenly, Ed taps me on the shoulder. "Liz, we've still got a schedule to follow" he reminds me, "The bus down to Henley only comes every half an hour, don't forget". I nod and thank him before turning back to Mr Barber. "I'm ever so sorry, but I have a constituency surgery soon, and one or two things to sort in the village before hand" I tell him, offering my hand, "It's been a pleasure to meet you". The man shakes my hand, but disappointment fills his eyes. I can't help but feel guilty. I had to offer him something, especially given the effort he had gone to.

"You could always come for a cup of tea later, if you'd like" I offer, and instantly the man perks up. "Half-three, perhaps? I needn't tell you where the house it, it seems". Mr Barber nods and shakes my hand again before releasing it. I nod to him and beckon Ed.

"Good bye, Mr Barber" I say, walking past him towards the pub door. Ed smiles at him as we go. I turn and give him one final smile when he returns my good bye. And then we are walking out in the open village again. I had almost forgotten what clean air tasted like.

"Well, what an odd chap" I say, "I can't believe I just invited him round for a cup of tea". Ed smiles and shrugs.

"He seems nice enough" he replies, "He came across as rather sweet to me".

"Have you developed a bit of a crush, Ed Miliband?" I joke. Ed slaps me gently on the arm.

"That's not how a gentleman treats a lady" I mock, feigning an English accent, "Mr Barber would never do that". Ed laughs in his typically goofy manner.

"I do hate you" he says. I smile at him sweetly and pat him on the back.

"I know you do".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be nice if Elizabeth perked up a bit by the end. Ed is her best friend, and best friends exist to cheer us up!  
> I apologise for any typos. This was written hastily on my phone.  
> feel free to leave a comment if you want :)


	21. Drunken Melody.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of reflection before the hubbub of conference begins.

**1st October, 1994**  
**Blackpool, England**

I had come to appreciate hotel rooms. They weren't particularly large or luxurious, and nor should they be. It was certainly a jump from the cushy estate I was used to I'm Oxfordshire. Still, it was nice to get away from all that. I hadn't been to the seaside in a while. I was tempted to take a walk down by the beach, but the weather was rather rotten. The sky was a dull grey and against the window panes splashed lukewarm rain. It was by no means cold.  
The room itself was fine, but it wasn't particularly private. Politicians don't know privacy, I had found. Whether it be in my office in Westminster or in my flat or hotels such as this, I was constantly being interrupted by other people, most of them advisers. Technically, I only had two in my employ, and yet, a matter of minutes after I had arrived, the entire Treasury team seemed to have congregated in my room. This very minute, however, was a quiet one. At last, I had been left to think in peace. I had finished my speech on the train. It probably needed a bit of fine-tuning, but that could wait for tomorrow. I was feeling surprisingly relaxed.

  
I'd never made a big speech like this before. As I've said before, I was not new to the practice, but never had I been given a slot in the schedule like this. A proper conference speech. I felt quite proud. The Commons had already been a test for me. One which I like to think I passed. My first real challenge as Shadow Chief Secretary had come two weeks ago.

* * *

There, at the dispatch box, stood Jonathan Aitken, as new to his post as I was. It was a shame Portillo was no longer Chief Secretary. Part of me had always wanted a chance to go for him one on one. Aitken drawls on. I listen to him, but my mind wanders.

An insignificant little thing he was. I had barely heard of him before he sprung up on the front bench. An avid collecter of cacti, a column in The Telegraph told me. To think that was the most interesting thing they could have said about him. Though Aitken did have his fair share of controversy. He had offended Thatcher gravely many years ago. Some business about breaking up with her daughter, Carol. I could imagine Mrs Thatcher hurling darts towards a photo of the man speaking before me. If only I had a few darts of my own at hand. I would happily fling a few of my own if it meant this boring git would shut up. To my relief, as if in answer to my prayers, he sits down, and suddenly it's my turn again. Even in my reverie I was able to pick out a weak spot.

"Madam Speaker, the Chief Secretary speaks very eloquently of debt reductions and growth in GDP. Perhaps almost as eloquently as the IFS, who, only yesterday, revised down their previous predictions on economic growth" I say, facing the Speaker's chair but looking towards the Tory front bench, "Perhaps the Honourable Gentleman could spend more time on the day job and less time with those cacti". I resist the urge to smile as my side laugh. Even Ken Clarke is chuckling in his seat. Aitken simply stares at me, eyes cold. I responded with a wink.

So simple a move and yet it had helped me a great deal. The PLP were not, on the whole, hostile, though there were many who didn't have much confidence in the word of a twenty-three year old. A degree was not enough to satisfy them. They needed solid proof that I could hold my own. And I had managed to provide it.

* * *

 Now I sit in a dimly lit hotel room on a rather inclement Blackpool evening. Outside I could hear drunken singing. I cou don't begrudge another happiness, I suppose. My mood had brightened slightly over the past few weeks. Parliament had indeed distracted me as I had hoped. I spent most of my time with Ed, Andy and Gordon. I had become quite close to Harriet again lately, as well. And Tony and I had been out for luncheon on a number of occasions now. On the whole, life was good. Lionel (I had stopped calling him Mr Barber on his insistence) had turned out of be quite a good egg, as well. I suppose he had become a friend of sorts. He was decent company, at least. He said he might cover my speech.

  
The singing gets louder, and now I can just about make it out to be a poor cover of Unchained Melody from Ghost. What a good film that had turned out to be. I didn't think it would be my sort of thing initially.

I wasn't really one for love stories, but the ghost element had lured me. Besides, George had been almost desperate to see it. I'd thought perhaps he was keen on Demi Moore (who could blame him), but after as we left the cinema I discovered that it Patrick Swayze he was interested in. I had found it rather sweet. Perhaps he fancied himself a Patrick Swayze. "If Patrick Swayze appeared here right now" George said, merrily walking us along the street towards my student flat, "And asked you to run away with him, what would you do?". I had laughed and pretended to think about it. "I'd except of course" I said. To that, George had coughed. I remember him watching me with narrowed eyes. I had to reassure him at least three times that evening that i wouldn't actually be eloping with Patrick Swayze at any point.

  
With a thud I fall from away from the memory of it all. By now, the drunken singing has faded, and I am left in silence. I stare ahead for a moment, arms crossed as I sit back in my armchair. I glance out of the window for no reason in particular. I doubted anything decent would be on television at this hour, and I wasn't in the mood to read. I sigh and stand up, before making my way over to the bathroom.

  
I flick the light switch and begin to undress. I drape my clothes over a radiator and turn on the shower. I had already had one that morning, but I saw no issue in having another. As I wait for the water (this particular hotel had some issues with its plumbing), I walk over to the mirror above the sink and take a moment to inspect my face. I wasn't a vein person. Very rarely did I ever stare at my reflection. I was merely curious to see whether my tiredness, and indeed sadness, was reflected by my appearance.

  
As I look into the mirror, I am confronted by an incredibly pale, thin face. I had always been thin, but I was more so recently. I thought perhaps I should see a doctor about it. A pair of light green eyes stare back at me, large and vacant. My hair fell to my shoulder in its usual red curls. I looked no different, I didn't think. Yet there was something odd about my reflection. There was a vacancy there, perhaps even a coldness. I sigh at myself and move away from the mirror, before stepping into hot streams of the shower to cleanse myself of the sins I had yet to commit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slowness (is that a word? xD) of the story at the mo.  
> 1994 is an important year for Elizabeth! A lot of that which happens this year will determine her future  
> We'll be in 2010 in no time ;)


	22. Lonely Nights in Blackpool.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth breaks away from her duties to enjoy a quiet drink alone. Or at least that's how she thought her evening would go.

**2nd October, 1994.**   
**Blackpool, England.**

What a boring day it had been. My morning had been spent putting the finishing touches to my speech. Ed, Andy and Harriet, who had in typical Harriet style come in for a chat, acted as my audience as I practised it. I found it rather hard to recite a speech whilst its words were unfamiliar. Yes, I had written them, but there was a large difference between writing a speech and reading it. I messed up once or twice, as I always did, but by eleven I had it mastered. Now all I had to do was remember it. I couldn't bear the idea of forgetting my lines in front of so many people.

Once they were confident that the speech was ready to be read, Andy and Ed scuttled off. As they left, I had heard Andy mention something about getting a bollocking from Alastair. That did not surprise me. I found I rather liked him, but dear me he had a temper. I was as mild as a poodle compared to him.  
Harriet remained behind for a little while, talking animatedly about nothing in particular. I listened, of course, and responded where I needed to, but I confess I wasn't exactly enthralled.

And to top off my exciting day, I now lie back on my bed speaking to my younger sister on the telephone. She babbled with such a speech that I was surprised the receiver didn't wear away. It was a wonder she had so much to talk about. She had finished her course at university now, and was simply mulling around at home, being a nuisance I would imagine. "I'm sorry?" I say, absentmindedly. I had quite drifted off for a moment there. With an irritated sigh, Helena replies.

"I was just saying that he needs to stop being so clingy" she squeaks, and even from here I can tell she is rolling her eyes at me. I rub my head and shut my eyes for a moment. "Who?" I ask. I'd quite forgotten who it was she was bitching about this time. There follows another irritated sigh.

"Lord Matthews' son, Rupert. We met him at that party the McGovern's threw at their townhouse last summer. He's rather fond of me, you know" Helena tells me, and I am still non the wiser, "You're becoming very absentminded, you know. Half the time I'm not sure you even care for what I say". I resist the urge to scoff.  
"Whatever gave you that idea?" I retort, and unsurprisingly my sarcasm goes unnoticed. Helena was a nice girl, but a rather dim one. You could pull no end of wool over her pretty little eyes.  
"Never mind Rupert Matthews, how are the family?" I ask, for that is why I rang in the first place.

"Oh, quite well. Mother nurses Father almost all day. I tell her she should relax a little but she doesn't listen. Father isn't complaining of course. You know how he relishes attention" Helena giggles, and I smile in fondness of him, "Fraser has taken to doing errands about the village for the local newspaper. He's certainly taken journalism in his stride, though I don't think prowling about town with a long-range lens looking for trouble will do him much good". I laugh at the image. I really did miss my family sometimes.  
"You'd best discourage him before he gets a job at the Mail" I quip, "And what about Ian? I haven't heard from him in so long". Helena falls silent for a moment. I know instantly what that silence means.

"He's been in a frightful mood all week. Father isn't having any of it. They've been cold with one another ever since Ian decided to go to Glasgow rather than Oxford" Helena says solemnly, "I've tried to cheer him up, but still he mopes around with an expression as bleak as the Grim Reaper's. I don't think he'll ever be content until he, well-". Her voice trails off, and I get the impression she was about to say something she really oughtn't to be saying. I narrow my eyes. Well I had to know now, didn't I?

"Until he what?" I enquire curiously. Helena sighs and lowers her voice to a whisper.

"Well, you know" she says, and I wonder whether Father is in earshot, "Until he comes out". My brows furrow.

"That's what he's worried about?" I reply, relieved that it wasn't something greatly damaging or serious, "He knows he has our support. And Fraser's. And I'm sure Mother would support him too". Helena sighs.

"Oh, I'm sure he knows that, but it's Father he has to get it past. You must be able to understand the fear of it all" she says, "Poor thing". He was a poor thing. I really did feel sorry for Ian. He'd first told me that he was gay when he was fifteen. He'd made me swear not to tell another living soul. And I hadn't. Three years later and he was still petrified of what our father would think of him. Father was a very conservative man who hankered for the kind of society his own father had lived in. I wouldn't describe him as a raging homophobe, of course, but he wasn't the most understanding person in the world.  
"He'll have to get accustomed to the idea at some point" I say, sitting up and running my temple in an attempt to soothe my head, "Father too easily forgets the nature of time. It goes on".

* * *

 

That evening I decide to go down to the hotel bar. I wasn't prepared to waste another night sitting about watching some tacky tripe on the television, or aimlessly discussing strategy with one of my advisers. I needed a drink, or perhaps two.  
As I walk up to the bar, I am met by Tony, who carries a sherry in each hand. "Evening, Liz" he greets me, flashing me that abnormally wide grin of his. I return his smile, albeit more reservedly, and nod to the two drinks he holds. "Having a date with Gordon?" I joke. Tony laughs before gesturing over to one of the tables nearby. I turn and wave to the brown-haired woman sat by it. Cherie was nice enough. Perhaps a bit odd, but at least she wasn't dull.

"What about you? Are you meeting anyone?" Tony asks innocently. I chuckle and shake my head. Not wishing to appear as some pathetic, lonely specimen, I hold my head a little higher with mock superiority. "My life seems to consist almost entirely of meetings these days" I reply, "I should like to enjoy a drink by myself for a change". Tony smiles.  
"I can't argue with that" he says, meaning to walk by me to join his wife, "Though you may be disappointed. There was a chap at the bar asking after you". My facial expression drops a little and with frustration I sigh. "Oh, joy" I groan, to which Tony offers a sympathetic smile. Just what I needed. Another Lionel fucking Barber. "Enjoy your evening" Tony quips with a wink, before walking away. I'm tempted to simply walk back to my room and go to bed, but decency redirects me.

With semi-clenched fists I walk up to the bar. It is mostly deserted, with most people sitting elsewhere. I hadn't been ambushed just yet, so I quickly ordered a drink. A moment later, a glass of whisky was pushed my way. I may act, and be in the stages of sounding, like one of the English, but I had not forgotten my country's love of whisky. Almost instantly it lulled my aching head. And, as per bloody usual, the impending interruption comes. Except the annoying git who sees fit to bother me is not another Lionel Barber. He is someone I am definitely acquainted with.

"I didn't expect to see you here" he says, standing beside me by the bar, "Not alone, anyway". I look down into the bottom of my glass with tired eyes.

"And yet you still asked after me" I reply, giving little thought to my tone, "I presume there is something you wish to tell me". I turn to face the pale complexion and dark eyes that were so familiar to me. He hasn't changed at all. Not that I expected him too, of course.

"Do I need a reason to talk to you?" George asks, and already I can sense he is beginning to get offended. My brain sighs and concedes to my aching heart. I couldn't be rude to him. He didn't deserve that. "Forgive me, it's been a long day" I tell him, "What brings you here? Have you finally come to your senses and converted?". I could dream, I suppose. George inadvertently gives me one of those typical boyish grins of his. "I've been instructed by Head Office to...oversee proceedings" he tells me quietly, as if it was supposed to be some kind of secret mission, "I just thought I'd pop in here for a quick drink before the fun starts". I scoff.

"Good luck finding such a thing" I retort. George raises an eyebrow and gives me one of those typically boyish grins of his. He really hasn't changed at all, has he? I was glad he was at ease around me. I'd rather this than a stifling awkward George who refuses to meet my gaze.

"I may do if you brighten up a little" he states in blunt chirpiness, "Bar tender, a bottle of chardonnay, you will, good sir. Put it on my tab". I roll my eyes. The bar tender fetches a bottle and sets it down on the bar before George alongside two clean wine glasses. George turns around, his dark eyes scouting around for a deserted table. He spots one in the corner of the bar and points to it. "You take the glasses, I'll take the bottle" he instructs, before striding away from the bar and towards the targeted table. I was all a bit perplexed by this, and wasn't too sure whether I should be going along, but nonetheless I followed. I wasn't exactly displeased to see him. I had missed him terribly.

"Anyone would think you've already downed a bottle" I comment, setting the glasses down between us, "You're practically squiffy". George pops the cork from the bottle and shakes his head.  
"If being in the company of a fine, intelligent woman makes a man high, then I am guilty" he soothes. Again I roll my eyes.

"I think that answers my question" I say. I knew him well enough to deduce that he wasn't completely off his face, but to say he was sober would be a lie. He turned into some kind of comical Oscar Wilde-type character when he was tipsy. It was rather amusing to behold, in all honestly. I won't deny that I was beginning to cheer up a little.

"I have to get through this conference some how" George jokes, "You can't expect me to sit through hours of socialist drivel completely sober".

"Well, it's probably not the fine stuff you're used to at Conservative Party conference, but it will do, I suppose" I reply slyly, "Seriously though, why have central office sent you here?". George straightens himself in his chair and takes a quick swig of wine.

"Believe it or not, there are some in the party who are afraid of your friend Blair. They're already starting to see him as a threat" he tells me plainly. I arch an eyebrow, allowing a small smirk to creep its way onto my lips. "Afraid? Well, isn't that a coup" I tease, pleased to hear the Conservatives had finally begun to unravel from their perpetual narcissism.

"Aha, hilarious. Enjoy it whilst you can" he warns, "If Blair mucks his keynote up, you'll lose your lead in an instant". I scoff at that. Not bloody likely, I think to myself. We had enjoyed quite the honeymoon the media. Most polls but us ahead of our nearest rivals. We could only hope that it would stay that way.

"He won't. I know he won't" I tell him matter-of-factly, "Tony knows what he's doing". George raises an eyebrow and stares at me. I merely state back. His eyes were still so very dark and soft. I don't know why I expected him to be so different. We hadn't exactly been apart for years on end. Had I been expecting to find him a shoddy, unshaven mess of a human being wallowing in his heartbreak? If so, I was far more stupid than I previously thought. Our separation had been entirely amicable. He looked perfectly fine because he was perfectly fine.

"We shall see" George says, reaching for his glass, "We. Shall. See".

* * *

 

An hour or so later and we were walking along a corridor in the hotel, destined for our respective rooms. George, I had discovered, was sharing a room with a chap named Daniel Finkelstein, a young Telegraph correspondent. I had asked whether he had fallen into any financial difficulties, but he had told me that he had chosen to share simply because he enjoyed the company. George didn't strike me as the sort who was easily lonely. He was well connected, with plenty of friends and relatives to spend time with. I didn't like to think of him spending his evenings alone.

"I have to say" George says, interrupting my thoughts, "That wine was much more potent than I first anticipated". He wasn't exactly swaying to and fro, but his direction of travel was a bit off. I decide to walk a little closer to him in case he stumbled. "Still a lightweight then?" I quip. He shoots me a look of feigned annoyance and makes a point of straightening his back. He looks like a member of Monty Python about to break into a silly walk. At that particular thought I laugh. I hadn't laughed-properly laughed-in a while. It doesn't go unnoticed. There is a sudden mellowness to George's expression now.

"I've missed you, you know" he says, and I can't help but divert my eyes elsewhere. I was hoping we wouldn't go into any of that. It had been nice to think that everything was as it was. Alas, the truth always has to poke its ugly head up from above the dirt. "I know you probably don't want to talk about any of that, but I just thought you should know" he continues, "I don't want you to think that I left my heart behind at that apartment. I left a few socks, but that's not relevant-". I allow a small chuckle to escape my lips. I glance ahead to check where it is we're actually walking. I didn't even know whether this was the right floor for George. I can see my door in the distance, so at least I was going in the right direction.

"We moved on for a reason, George" I remind him kindly, "Let's just leave it at that". He looks to his feet, and for once that evening he actually looks quite sad. "Im not sure I want to" I hear him mutter. I'm tempted to remind him that it was he who made a point about going our separate ways, not I, but I didn't think it would be an appropriate time.

I stop walking as I reach my door. It takes a few seconds for George to realise that I'm no longer walking alongside him. He turns and looks the door up and down, as if it was a person he disapproved of. I'd forgotten how comical a drink he was. "This is my room" I indicate, just in case it hadn't become clear to him. I fumble about in my pocket for my key and slide it into the lock. It would be rude of me to disappear without saying goodnight, I suppose, and so I turn back to George and offer him a kind smile. "Well, I think I'd better get some sleep now" I tell him.

"Of course, of course" he murmurs, "You've got a big day tomorrow, after all". I nod. I had actually forgotten about my impending speech. The fears I had about forgetting it all had subsided slightly. I blamed the alcohol, of course. "I'd imagine I'm probably becoming a bit of a bore now, anyway" George adds, steadying himself on the wall for a second. I shake my head.

"Nonsense" I reply, for it admittedly was, "This evening hasn't been a complete disaster". George jerks his head and separates himself from the wall for a moment. He had already straightened up again, and had regained usual lanky gait. He scratches the back of his head and takes a deep breath. I stand next to the door silently, my right brow creeping up more and more with each passing second as my bemusement grew. Once George had finished psyching himself up for whatever odd mission he had planned, he took a step forward and clasped either side of my face. Instantly my brows drop and I glare at him. Don't you dare, I hoped my eyes told him.

"Then you won't mind if I completely ruin it by doing this" he says, before leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. I was far too feeble a person to fight. Or at least that's what I tell myself as I reach back and unlock the door.


	23. Conference.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speech day arrives.

**3rd October, 1994.**

**Blackpool, England.**

The hall was well and truly packed. With rising membership rates, conference turnout had been good for the many years running now. I don't remember seeing so many people last year, however. I couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. It was something that must have been evident on my face, as Peter leaned over to me and put a gentle hand on my arm. "Don't look so afraid" he tells me with a smile, "It's a conference speech, not a presidential address". I put on a smile for him and glance across the hall once more. It was a large venue, full to the brim with interested members. There were even some standing at the back. I turn my gaze to the large black letters printed on the light green backdrop behind us. 'New Labour, New Britain'. New Labour. It was a name Alistair had suggested, and we had agreed upon. It sounded good. A new Labour Party ready to make our mark on the modern political scene. At last the modernisers had made their way to the top.

"Now, conference" said the Shadow Financial Secretary as he finished his piece, "Please welcome Elizabeth Nelson MP". He steps away from the lectern and turns to me. The watching members applaud and wait for me to take my place. I stand up, flatten the creases out of my dress and walk up. I follow the usual decorum of shaking his hand and kissing his cheek before starting. My audience continue to clap as I take my place before the lectern. And then they fall quiet, their eyes fixed on mine as they wait for my speech to begin. Deep breaths. Hands gripping the edges of the lectern. Eyes fixed on a single point on the opposite side of the hall. The past few days, weeks, months even had been leading up to this moment.

Strangely, I found myself brought back to the night of my election, where I had stood before a hall very different to this one, before only a hundred or so locals. I remember the way they had all looked at me. It was no different to to the way the delegates and members looked at me now. We have put our trust in you, now don't let us down. Prove to us that we're not mistaken. And so prove it I shall.  
"Conference" I begin, projecting my voice as best I can, "Thank you. I shall try and stick to time, as I'm sure, like me, you're waiting for my friend the Shadow Chancellor to speak."  
"Now, it doesn't take a genius to notice that I'm not exactly of a great age. As my friend the Deputy Leader kindly pointed out only recently, there are speakers from the youth wing who look older than I". Laughter rises from the audience, which gives me a necessary boost in confidence.  
"But whilst I may be young, and I may be of little experience, I know what this party needs the most" I continue, finding that the more I spoke, I bolder I felt, "What it needs is strong, sound and trustworthy economic policy, and I know there is no one better to deliver on that than our Shadow Chancellor". I turn and smile at Gordon as conference applauds.

"Conference, it's time for us to face facts. We have been in opposition for fifteen years. And the reason, at least partly, for that is our weakness on the economy" I state, relaxing my grip on the lectern, "The British people want to know that their money is in safe hands. Too often economic competence is seen as something that is characteristic only of the Conservatives. That itself is debatable, of course". I pause as there is further laughter about the hall.

"My friends, behind me you see the words New Labour. New Labour. For that is what we are. Led by our wonderful new leader," I say, turning to look to where Tony sat, "Together we have started to reshape our party. We are determined to deliver on the economic policies we have failed to promise in the past. Fair taxation and proper investment, but also responsible spending and business-friendly governance. After so many years of Conservative rule, that is the balance this country needs. And we will be the ones to deliver it".

* * *

 

There is much back-patting in the adjacent room afterwards. The day's round of speeches had finished, and now, MPs and delegates alike, we were all assembled in a large empty room only a corridor or two away from the bar. No doubt many of us would start gravitating towards it at some point. Often, central office was quite militant in its insistence that conference be kept professional, not reduced to a piss-up. This year however they had barely commented on the involvement of alcohol at all. "Good one, lass" John Prescott congratulates me, giving me a well-meant yet unnecessarily hard punch on the shoulder, "Not bad for a first go". I nod to him and rub the spot he had undoubtedly bruised. Tony raises his eyebrows at his deputy and shakes his head.

"John, you mustn't try to keep her so humble" he says, placing a much more gentle hand on my shoulder, "Liz, we are all very proud of you". It was like being congratulated on getting a high grade on an exam by a parent. Nonetheless, I thanked him and smiled. I certainly did feel better now. By the end of my speech, all fears and doubts I had were gone.

"You need to take more breaths" Gordon tells me, ever the grump, "And try not to elevate your voice too much". I can't help but laugh slightly.

"Should I be taking notes?" I ask jokingly. He blinks at me for a moment, before allowing a smile, albeit a relatively small one, to form on his lips. "Don't think I'm not proud of you" he admits, "I know John would be too". I return his smile and hug him. Gordon wasn't the hugging type, and not was I usually, but on this occasion I allowed my usual reservations to be set aside. I glance up to the dull ceiling and sigh. Was John watching from somewhere above? I hoped so. I hoped he looked down at me as often as I looked up at him.

I pull myself back from Gordon and pat him on the back. "Never mind my speech" I tell him, "Yours was very good. I'd imagine the Party trusts you more than ever now". Gordon jerks his head and looks about the room as if for prying eyes. "Let us hope it's not misplaced" he replies, almost solemnly, "We've worked hard on party policy, you and I. I just hope I can deliver on it. Of course we won't be able to do all that we promise. No doubt our leader will ensure that". I furrow my eyebrows at him and shake my head. Lowering my voice slightly, I reach try to reason with him.

"Gordon, I know you're still feeling bitter about all of this, but this is what the party needs" I tell him bluntly, "It is difficult for you, that I understand, but you must learn to accept it. Tony is the leader we have. Tony must be the leader we support". Gordon sighs and jerks his head once more.  
"Yes, yes" he grumbles, "You're right. Forgive me, I'm rather tired". He did look rather gaunt, that much was true. I doubted it was worries about his speech that had kept him up at night. I glance at my watch. Half five. How quickly the day had gone. It felt like I had been up and about only ten minutes or so. "You could always sneak away to bed now" I recommend kindly, "I'm sure Tony won't miss your presence too much". Gordon shoots me a tired look, to which I can only smirk. "Good evening, Liz" he says, before slipping away. I chuckle to myself lightly. Poor Gordon.

"He's in a frightful mood again" Peter comments, appearing beside me drink in hand, "Any one would think he hates his job".

"Well, it's not that he hates his job" I sigh, "It's just that it wasn't the one he wanted". Tony was mere months into his leadership and already Gordon had become irate. I dread to think what he will be like in future, provided we all last that long, of course. Even we weren't so cocky as to think we were certain winners. Peter takes a sip of his wine and takes a moment to study the surrounding crowds. Suddenly, his eyes narrow. He elbows me gently and leans in to whisper.  
"Say, I think that George chap is staring at you" he informs me discreetly, "Why is he here?". I feign surprise. How I wished to be ignorant of his company. If only I was clueless as to why he was here. "I don't know" I lie, "Perhaps I shall go and ask". Peter glances over to where George stands some distance away and gives him a disapproving look. Whilst Tony acted as some kind of approving father, Peter acted as an over-protective brother. "Well do it quickly" Peter insists, "I haven't bought you a single drink since we arrived here". I smile at him and begin to walk away. "Go on ahead to the bar, then" I tell him, "I'll be all of five minutes, I promise". Peter does not need to be told twice. I begin to wonder if he's taken a fancy to one of the bar men there. I can't say I knew any of them. Nor can I say it mattered whether any of them were gay or not; Even straight men found themselves flirting with Peter. I had witnessed it first hand many times. I could even recall one interesting moment in which my eldest brother engaged in some particularly cheeky 'banter' with him. My reverie is interrupted when I realise that George, who has been lingering about for the past five minutes or so, is approaching. I curse under my breath and try to appear as calm as could be.

"Good evening" I greet him, "Enjoy the speech?". George laughs gently and scratches the back of his head. "I can't say I particularly appreciated the content, but the delivery was good" he replies, "You did well". I can't help but smirk slightly.  
"I uncharacteristically honest admission for a Tory" I quip, to which George only laughs even more.  
"Yes, well, we're following in your party's great footsteps. A new brand of politics and all that" he states sarcastically, "Though I'm not sure the 'New Conservatives' has much of a ring to it". I allow myself a small chuckle.  
"You can mock" I reply, "Anyway, you approached with a great sense of purpose, so I presume there is something you want to talk to me about. Though if you're after policy ideas I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you". George grins, and I can tell he's fighting back the urge to make another 'witty' remark. But then his expression becomes more serious, and I am almost alarmed by his sudden change in mood. Ah, I think to myself, that's why he's come over. For a moment I had forgotten.

"You know perfectly well why" he says quietly, "Do you know what we are now? Because I certainly don't". I liked to think I had the answer. Whether it was the right one of course was another matter, but it was an answer all the same. "We are what we were last week. And the week before that" I remind him, for it is what I feel to be the truth. Rather than feel more conflicted than ever, I felt more decided than ever. George was not convinced, it seems.

"You don't think anything has changed?" He questions, thankfully remembering to keep his voice low, "So what was last night?". I sigh and think quietly for a moment. It was a perfectly good question. Even I wasn't too sure of the answer. "Closure" I offer. George scoffs.

"Closure?" He repeats in disbelief. I sigh heavily and look him straight in the eye.

"Look, I'm not going to pretend that last night didn't happen, because there is no point" I tell him, blunt but not rude, "Don't forget that it was you who suggested we go our separate ways. Before I thought you were wrong. Now, however, I see that you were right. I hope you find someone who can give you the attention that you deserve, but that someone is not me, and for as long as I remain in this job it never will be. Good night, George". And with that I give him one final peck on the cheek and walk away, leaving him to ponder on all that I had just told him on his own. I was not sad or angry or regretful. In a way, I was quite relieved. No doubt a month ago I would have welcomed him back into my life with open arms. Perhaps one day I will find it in me to rebuild the bridges I had just burnt down. But, for now, my head was clear, and I was free. And so off to the bar I stride, as short in stature as ever, but feeling tall.

 

 


	24. Election Night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we jump forward a few years, and just in time for the turning point of Elizabeth's career. The time has come. Will she make it?

**1st May, 1997.**

**Henley-Upon-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

9:45pm. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until either rampant jubilation, or extreme misery. Of course, what we waited for so eagerly was just an exit poll, but very often exit polls were almost exactly reflective of actual events. We had been wandering about in the wilderness of opposition for so long now. I was quite tempted to sink to my knees and pray to all the gods that had ever existed, or not existed.

I wondered what Tony was doing. Probably sat in his own constituency home with Cherie, and perhaps the children, nervously sat before their television set as they waited for the judgment that would either crown us or damn us. And what about Gordon? And Peter? And even Alastair? Tonight the architects of the grand new ship that was New Labour would either see their prized vessel sink or glide.

9:47pm. With each passing minute my heart begins to race a little faster. I had been nervous in '92, but that had been different. The only thing I had been scared about that night was fainting during the declaration. At least I was in the seclusion of my own home now. There would be time enough to steady my nerves before the count. I was feeling optimistic about my prospects here in Henley. I liked to think I had done a good job as an MP. Whether or not the people agreed was another matter, as I would soon find out.

9:50pm. Only ten minutes to go. David Dimbleby droned on before me. Reporters had been sent to all corners of the country, all awaiting the first few results that would no doubt shape the election result. Already I could see grandees of all colours lining up to do their bit once the exit poll was out. A small disgruntled grumble drew my attention. I look around, just as a number of familiar faces traipse into the living room. One of them holds a small child to their chest. "You're still concious" Fraser smirks, perching himself down on the armchair to the left of the television. He glances at his watch. "9:53" he announces, "Seven minutes until we find out how badly the Conservatives have been thumped by our darling sister here". I'm tempted to throw a cushion at him, but the sweet smile of a small child distracts me. The infant is passed to me gently, and softly I hold him. He's growing fast, with a full head of red curly red hair, and dark, beady eyes. For a moment he is fixated on the dancing colours of the television. Someone had to find David Dimbleby interesting, I suppose. "I thought he might like to wish his mummy good luck before he goes to sleep" Lionel says fondly, and I can tell that his eyes are fixed on the boy rather than the Dimbleby. "We'll do just fine" I whisper, planting a small kiss on the child's head, "Just fine indeed. And when you wake up tomorrow, you'll see Tony, and Gordon, as bright as can be, and everything will be okay. Okay?". I give the infant another peck for good measure before standing and handing him back to his father for bed. I momentarily glance back at the television. 9:56pm. Four minutes. Four measly minutes. Lionel senses the panic on my face, and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You'll be absolutely fine" he reassures me, "You'll see". I smile, and then he and the infant are gone.

So much had happened in the past three years. In fact, the last few years had been more eventful than the previous twenty-three. I was nearing my twenty-sixth birthday now. I had all that I had wanted, and indeed more. A constituency, a role in the political scene of the country, a home (a rather lavish one at that). I even had a husband and a child. The last two are much harder to explain than the others. Neither had been expected or planned for. Time had passed so very quickly, and before I knew it I was lying in a maternity ward cradling a small bundle, in the doting eye of someone who adored me. I certainly hadn't intended for any of it to happen, but it happened, and now that I have it, I don't want to lose it. Little Alex, named after a cousin of my father's who had been responsible for some heroic deed or other, was almost two now. He had been born in the July, with Lionel officially joining the family in December. I had insisted that it be a simple do. And simple it was.

9:59pm. I sink back into the settee. Fraser shifts ever closer to the edge of his seat, whilst my mother, who had been anxiously hovering about the edges of the room, sits down beside me. She had voted, but hadn't told me who she had voted for. Unlike most of my family, she was not a Conservative, but that did not mean she was of my side either. "Hold steady, Liz" Mother tells me quietly, giving my left hand a quick squeeze. I take a deep breath as the hand of Big Ben jolted ever closer. We were now but seconds away. I was almost tempted to shut my eyes and block my ears. And so it begins.

3\. 2. 1.

"And as Big Ben strikes ten, and the polls close, we can give you the results of our exit poll" Dimbleby announces, but my eyes are on the large screen that sits behind him, a screen where those all important figures will be displayed in just a few seconds time, "We've spoken to 14,000 people in 200 constituencies tonight, and we hope they've been telling us the truth".

Quiet falls just for a second.

"There it is, ten o'clock" Dimbleby says, "And we say that Tony Blair is to be prime minister, and a landslide is likely". And there I see Tony's face, alongside a small animated rose on a backdrop of pure red. Tony Blair. Prime Minister. Landslide. My mother seizes my hands before I have a chance to react. "Oh, Elizabeth!" She cries, wrapping her arms around me. From the corner of my eye I can see Fraser slowly sinking into his seat, but I find i don't care.

"Labour, 47%" Dimbleby continues, and it doesn't quite sink in at first, "Conservatives, 29%. That would be the worst result the party have had since 1932". Fraser audibly sighs, but it is a sigh almost drowned out by the ringing that now occupies my head. And then, almost as though I've been in some form of trance, I snap back into reality. "47%" I repeat, eyes widening, "We've done it, haven't we? We've finally done it". I hug my mother and jump to my feet. Please let this exit poll be right. Please let it be even slightly right.

Suddenly, there is a metallic ringing sound, and with a huff Fraser reaches over in his armchair to seize the phone. "Hello? Oh, hello, Mr Blair. Or Prime Minister, as I should probably call you" he says, a distinct hint of bitterness to his tone. I roll my eyes and take the receiver from him. "Tony?" I ask, voice squeaking slightly. I can picture his grin perfectly.

"Not bad, is it?" He jokes, laughing heartily, "I always hoped we'd pull through this time. Gosh, this really is just incredible". I can't help but laugh along with him. "Congratulations" I say, as it was in order, "The country chose the right man". Tony continues to laugh.

"And I chose the right team" he replies sincerely, "Even if the exit poll isn't perfectly right, we've still won. I know it. I can feel it, Liz".

"I'll join you for the party at head office at around twelve, then?" I joke.

"Let's hope so" Tony says, "Good luck with your count".

"And you" I smile, "I'll speak to you later, Tony". And then I place the phone back in its place. 47%. Such a thing would have been deemed impossible five years ago. We'd come so far, and fought so hard, and it seemed to have paid off. And in the moment, as my mother clapped and swayed to each praising word uttered by those who came and went on the television, and as my younger brother tried to shut it all out all together, I look up to the heavens and think only one thing. This is for you, John.


	25. The Results.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The election night begins to take shape, and it seems it will be even better than expected.

**2nd May, 1997.**

**The Town Hall, Henley-Upon-Thames.**

"Good morning, Ms Nelson" I hear Dimbleby say through my ear piece, "You must be feeling very pleased indeed". I smile at the camera involuntarily and nod. "Good morning, David" I respond, "Yes, this is certainly turning into _our_ night. We've seen a lot of positive responses throughout the campaign, and we've been polling very highly for any number of weeks now, so we always hoped we would do well. Though I don't think any of us anticipated a win as big as the one predicted".

"At the moment Labour stand on 299 seats. That's up 77 from what you had at the last election" Dimbleby says, "Are you expecting a majority of over one hundred?".

"Well, given the defeats we've suffered in previous elections, we would be very happy with a majority of one" I retort, "Given the gains we've made so far, I'd say a majority of over one hundred is likely. We shall have to see".

"One of the highlights of the last election was your defeat of Michael Heseltine, a then Cabinet minister and stalwart of the Thatcher era. What are you thinking about your own prospects there in Henley?" Dimbleby asks. I can't help but chuckle slightly. My majority had been small, and it was a seat previously held by the Conseravatives for many decades. Oxfordshire had always been a predominantly Tory county, so I was very much a rarity. Despite the success Labour were having this morning, I couldn't yet rule out a resurgence for the Tories here. "We're feeling very optimistic . Despite my commitments down in Westminster, I've continued to work for my constituents as best I can, and if they feel I've failed them then they'll vote me out. Though I would say that given the results we're seeing up and down the country, a Conservative fight back is very unlikely" I tell him.

"I think you may be right" Dimbleby sighs, "Thank you for speaking to us, Ms Nelson. No doubt we'll rejoin you for your count". I nod and wait for the signal. Once it comes, I remove my ear piece and step down from the balcony of the town hall. I'm ambushed my local press the minute my heel touches the creaky wooden floor boards of the hall. I practically bat them away; They were just like flies. I fight through the crowd and make it to the corner of the hall in which my fellow Labourites have set up camp. "How did it go?" My campaign manager, a charming older woman by the name of Dorris, asks brightly. "Well, I thought. Dimbleby wasn't too pressing. I think perhaps they're waiting for my count" I answer. Suddenly, we hear a loud cheer. We all turn sharply to face the source of the sound. Andy punches the air with his fist, his other hand holding a typically clunky mobile phone to his ear. Many others in the hall are now looking over. I arch my eyebrow as he ends the call and marches over to us. "You won't believe this" he grins, and I'm sure I've never seen him so happy, "Michael Portillo is gone". We all blink at him silently for a second, before bursting into cheers of our own. Dorris, despite her age a very fit woman, leaps into the air. She embraces a group of nearby activists and plants a wet kiss on the cheek of our local party chairman. "They're falling like ninepins" Andy cries in delight. I hug him and allow myself a chuckle. Michael Portillo. Gone. How I wish I had been there to see it.

"Candidates! Candidates! If you could all assemble on the platform, now" I hear the returning officer call as he takes his place before the lectern. I take a deep breath before turning to my team. "If you don't get a majority of at least five thousand I shall be very disappointed" Lionel jokes, giving me a quick squeeze. He kisses me on the forehead before releasing me from his grasp and allowing me to address the rest of the gatherers. "No matter what happens, know that I value each and every one of you" I tell him, for I mean it with every fibre of my being, "If we can give Heseltine a knock, I'm sure we can give this chap a real good thumping". To that my team cheer, and with bright eyes they watch we walk away towards the platform. As I take my place, between the Liberal Democrat candidate and the Indepedent candidate, the local press who had congregated like vultures in the far corner sprung into action, raising their cameras and notepads at the ready. As the returning officer clears his throat, my eyes drift towards the grave-faced group below who sported blue rosettes. How they glared. And how little I cared.

"I, the undersigned, being the returning officer for the Henley constituency, hereby give notice that the total number of votes for each candidate is as follows" the Returning Officer announces. I wasn't feeling quite as nauseous this time around, though it would be a lie to say I was beyond fear. Any MP who stands fully confident probably doesn't deserve to win, and probably won't win.

"Ainsley, Kevin. Liberal Democrat. 5,720". A gain from last time, but certainly not enough.

"Stanley, Constance. Referendum Party. 1,218". Very little change.

"Keane, Jonathan. Indepedent. 1,629". A big drop from the last election. I suspected the inclusion of a Liberal Democrat candidate had reduced their support somewhat.

"Lawson-Wright, Stephen. Conservative". My eyes dart towards where the story candidate stood. A small smile was etched on his face, and his expression radiated with confidence. Yet his eyes weren't so sure. There was doubt in them, fear almost. I nod to him politely, before turning my gaze ahead once more. "9,810". The Conservative group below clap and cheer as loud as they can. It was a huge decrease in vote for them, but they were proud of their candidate all the same. As they should be".

"Nelson, Elizabeth. Labour. 24,278". The hall erupts, as it had done when Heseltine had fallen. My team cheer and clap and wave their hands about in pure joy. Even the Conservatives find it in them to clap. As the returning officer goes through all the other necessary details, I look ahead. I can hear the BBC reporter upon the balcony talking faintly. "That's an increased majority for Labour in Henley, the seat of the Shadow Chief Secretary to the Treasury. That brings Labour closer still to that all important half way mark. And with so many hours still to go, it does look as though we'll be seeing a Labour landslide of an unprecedented scale".

A Labour landslide. Of an unprecedented scale. I bow my head for a moment and close my eyes. I allow a smile to creep its way onto my lips, and cheerfully I look up again. "I therefore declare that Elizabeth Nelson is duely elected the Member of Parliament for Henley" the returning officer finishes, stepping aside from the lectern to allow me to speak. I take a deep breath and hold my head high. Five years ago, I had approached that lectern slowly and gingerly, eyes wide with shock, hands trembling slightly. I could remember silently praying for a stronger stomach. This time, however, I made no such prayer.


	26. Government Calls.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth takes her place in government, at last.

**2nd May, 1997.**

**Downing Street, London.**

It was most surreal a feeling. Walking, or even waltzing, along the pavement towards the shining black door of 10 Downing Street, head held as high as could be, hands steady by my sides. I'd received the call sometime after the election had officially ended, when we knew that we had won. Over 400 seats, and a trail of defeated ministers behind us. For once, we actually seemed untouchable. No doubt there would be considerable worry in the months and years to come, but for now at least we were allowed a honeymoon of sorts. And so here I am, before the door many of us had envisioned in our dreams. Cameras flashed, and people called, but none of it effected me. I stride away from it all as the door opens, and I am, for the first time as member of the government, allowed inside.

Downing Street is already full of life, with press officers and researchers dashing about the place. A tall, young-looking man greets me as I glance around. "Ms Nelson?" he asks, "Follow me". I nod to him and do as he says. I am taken up the first flight of stairs, past various portraits of past prime ministers, along a rather dim corridor and into a comparatively bright room. It's a large space, with little furniture. I see an ornate desk, a fireplace, and two old sofas in between a paper-strewn coffee table. The young man disappears as quickly as he had appeared, leaving me to my own ends. No doubt the poor chap was busy. One glance towards the man sat at the desk reminds me of my purpose.

"Tony!" I smile, "Or should that be Prime Minister?". He looks up from his work, and gets to his feet. It was difficult to think his grin could get any wider. He steps out from behind the desk and approaches me, before embracing me in a warm hug. I had perhaps been a little cold with him at first, often frustrated by the way in which he would so frequently annoy Gordon, but we had become rather close over the past few years. Of course we would no doubt have the odd altercation in the months ahead, but we could at least say with honesty that we were friends.

"I've had to pinch myself several times already" Tony says, gesturing towards the sofas in the middle of the room, "I can hardly believe it". I take a seat, whilst he takes the one opposite me.

"It's taken us an awfully long time, but we've done it" I sigh contentedly. Tony nods and smiles. He claps his hands together and flashes me another of his grins.

"Well, you no doubt know why I've called you here" he says, "So I shall get on with it. Elizabeth, I am appointing you Chief Secretary to the Treasury. You will be based in Her Majesty's Treasury, with control over economic policy, and indeed the content of the budget". I want to keep a straight face, for this should be a serious moment, but I can barely contain my happiness. I felt as though I'd finally made it in life. My other achievements seemed most small in comparison to this. Government had, at last, called, and of course I had to answer.

"Thank you, _Prime Minister_ " I respond, "I shall endeavour to act to the best of my abilities". Tony smiles, softer this time, and nods.

"I know you will".

* * *

 

"So this is it, then" Ed Miliband states, pushing his rounded spectacles further up his nose as he studies the building before him. I, along with Andy, marvel with him. "The fun begins" I add. And so I lead the way up the white steps of the Treasury for the first time.

"Where's Gordon?" Ed asks.

"He's still settling down in No. 11" I tell him, having spoken to Gordon earlier, "We may as well warm the place up a little for him". Downing Street and now the Treasury. Such locations were had been so common a sight for us all, but no matter how many times we had graced their tiles we had still felt distant. Now we felt entirely different. To think this was our patch now, ours to roam, ours to govern.

"Ed Miliband?" A woman bearing a clipboard under her arm approaches us, her eyes fixing straight onto Ed, who continues to gaze at his surroundings. I nudge him gently. "Mr Miliband, if you could follow me, please. I've been asked to show you to your desk" the woman says, finally getting Ed's attention, "You are to join Mr Balls. Do follow me". Ed nods to me, before chasing after the woman, who scuttles away with her clipboard like a small insect. 

"Shouldn't I be going with Ed?" Andy ponders, expression one of discomfort, "I'm a special adviser now".

"The two Eds are Gordon's. You, dear Andy, are mine" I tell him, offering him a reassuring smile. It was a rather daunting scene, I suppose. One could hardly blame Andy for feeling a little intimidated. "Say, how are things going with Marie?" I ask, hoping the subject might relax him a little whilst we waited, "How long has it been now?". Andy blushes slightly and looks to his feet. He was clearly very smitten.

"Two years" he reminds me, "I've actually been thinking about asking her to marry me. I don't want her to think I'm rushing into things".

"Oh, but how could she ever turn Andy Murray Burnham down?" I wink, "On a more serious note, and whilst I don't count myself as too sentimental a person, I don't believe there is anything such thing as rushing where love is involved. If you want to marry her, marry her". Andy bows again and smiles at my appreciatively.

"As much as I'd love to hear more about all of this, I think we're being beckoned" I add, nodding over to the woman with the clipboard, who has since returned and stands at the base of the grand staircase before us. She waits, staring at the pair of us in the hope that we would begin to move. "Come along, Andy" I instruct merrily, and off we stride across the marble of the Treasury towards the stairs.

"Good afternoon, Chief Secretary" a Civil Servant greets as I follow the woman along a corridor. Others nod, some even stop walking and, as though I was some kind of Royal, stand against the all as I go by. It was terribly strange, and not at all something that I would get used to.

"Here you are, Chief Secretary" the woman says, turning a corner and stopping before two polished wooden doors. "To the right you will find your secretary's office and a waiting room. To your left, desks for your advisers and researchers" the woman maps out what lies beyond, "And straight ahead you will find your office. I shall return once you've settled in". I thank her and twist the knob on the door, pushing it open almost gingerly.

It was a relatively cool place, with plenty of windows and a very faint yellow paint on the walls. It was airy, so much so that I was convinced I could feel a breeze. For now, this area of the Treasury was empty. Soon, it would be full of various officials and civil servants buzzing in and out.

Andy walks away to investigate, whilst I focus on my own office. On it is a wooden plaque, the words 'Chief Secretary to the Treasury' delicately engraved on it. I trace the words with my fingers. What would the next few months and years entail? Would I enjoy my role? Would I even last? Such questions were already floating around my mind. For now, at least, we were safe as a party. We were popular, large in number and on good terms with most of the press. Even the weather seemed to have brightened up.

_Would could possibly go wrong?_


	27. Dinner.

**1st April, 1999.**

**Henley-Upon-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

NEW NATIONAL LIVING WAGE INTRODUCED. One of our first triumphs as a government had finally been introduced to the country. A legally binding basic rate of pay. I was proud to have had a part in it all. The Department for Social Security had been most grateful for my input. The economy was doing well, and we were making the reforms we had waited to make for so many years. Two years on, and everything seemed to be running smoothly.

Gordon was on the phone as I settled down for bed. I'd traveled up to Oxford for a constituency surgery, and had decided to stay for the weekend. It was an odd time for conversation on the telephone, but that was Gordon's way. Ed had told me about many occasions where the Chancellor had called him at ridiculous times in the morning. "We're on the verge of having a fall out" Gordon tells me solemnly, and to my own amusement I can imagine him listening against the wall of No. 11 for Tony's voice as we speak, "It's as if he wants control over the Treasury". I sigh and rub my eyes. I was most tired by now, and despite my love for Gordon I wished he would finish his point.

"We have power enough, Gordon, if anything I fear it's we who are after greater control" I ponder. Gordon is quiet for a moment.

"You sound English" he comments, most spontaneously. I chuckle despite myself.

"Good night, Gordon" I say, "Get some sleep, will you?". Gordon grumbles quietly for a moment, before bidding me a good night and hanging up. I place the receiver down and sigh. My feet ached, and I was sure that the minute my head touched my pillow I would drop off. It probably seemed rather uncalled for, given that most of my day had been spent behind a desk. Still, I was tired and I needed sleep. "Who was that?" Lionel asked, emerging from the en suite in his pajamas. Again, I sigh.

"Gordon" I tell him as he climbs into bed beside me, "It was just another of his paranoid musings, nothing to worry about. Still, enough about my job, what about yours? What was this you were saying about promotion?". He shrugs and emits a wistful sigh.

"There's a chance I'll be made News Editor" Lionel tells me, "Which isn't bad, of course". I furrow my eyebrows at him.

"It's a step away from being Editor, I suppose" I jest, nestling down into the covers, "You mustn't play down your own achievements, you know. You're doing very well". Lionel smiles softly, and puts a warm arm around me. I'm grateful for the heat, in all honesty. Despite the thickness of the duvet, I find I'm losing warmth. It's always good to have someone to nestle down besides, of course.

"Because you've never once been guilty of that yourself, of course" Lionel muses casually, "Going off subject entirely, your mother rang my office earlier to say she was hosting dinner tomorrow night". I snort. She lived in another world, my mother. You couldn't knock her for her for planning these things so strictly, of course. She wanted to make sure everyone invited knew exactly what was going on, even if they needed to be reminded at the last second.

"Yes. I don't know why we're having a family dinner. I suspect Nevin may have something to announce" I query, more to myself than anyone else, "If he's allowed himself to be caught on the arm of a woman in Tatler, it must be serious". Quite unexpectedly, Lionel laughs. I raise an eyebrow, tempted to laugh myself. Something had clearly tickled him, though I wasn't sure what.

"What?" I ask curiosity. Lionel shakes his head and brushes a piece of hair from my eyes. "Nothing. I suppose I forget what sort of family I've married into some times" he tells me, and to that I chuckle myself, albeit lightly. I couldn't blame Lionel for feeling a bit out of place with it all, even after all these years. I admitted to growing tired of the ancient pomposity of the middle class, yet time and time again I found myself inadvertently drawn into it.

"Do you think he's having a good childhood? Alex, I mean" Lionel adds suddenly, his tone a more serious one now, "We're doing a good job, aren't we?". My brows furrow, and with a concerned expression I look up to him. I couldn't quite understand where this thought had suddenly sprung from. Only this afternoon he had been playing most happily with his son. "Of course we are" I remind him, confident that we were doing well, "He's a happy, healthy boy with hard-working parents who love him very much". Lionel jerks his head, before nodding slowly. I know exactly what that means. He's yet to finish. I don't like the idea of him sleeping on such thoughts, but I'd be damned if I could get anything further from him.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing. Nothing" Lionel says, his smile resuming. He kisses my forehead before leaning over and turning the beside lamp off. I snuggle down against his chest, but don't close my eyes. "Do you think Alex would appreciate a sibling? Someone else to play with whilst we're not around?" Lionel proposes. I can't help but smile. Our little Alexander was fast approaching the age of four by now. He hadn't been planned, and so there seemed little point in planning what came after him. Another child meant time away from my job, but I could learn once more that there was more to life than working, couldn't I? 

* * *

 

I'd quite forgotten how old-fashioned my parents' home was. My own home wasn't by any means an ultra-modern, simple abode, but Kingston Lisle seemed like a palace. Thirteen bedrooms for two and a dog. It seemed most ludicrous.

"You should think about downsizing, Father" Helena comments at the dinner table, "I feel as though I'm being transported to the nineteenth century whenever I come here".

"Then by all means don't come" Nevin retorts, lifting his second glass of wine. Our mother shoots him a stern look. She could hardly blame us. Teasing was part of our ethos as a family. It was, quite simply, what siblings did. "I must say" David, my slightly irritating cousin, pipes up, "Does anyone else get the feeling they've been summoned here?". Fraser, who sits beside him, nods. "Have you been made Chair of the local Women's Institute, Mother?" He asks jokingly. As funny as it sounded, it did sound like the sort of thing our mother would announce with as much ceremony as possible.

"No, dear" Mother says, as calm as could be, "You haven't been gathered here for my sake". Her blue eyes fix on Nevin. Naturally, we all look to him in suit. After another sip of wine, he begins to notice the many sets of eyes now on him. He reaches up and loosens his tie slightly. "Yes, well" he says, and for a moment I think I might be nervous, "I'm engaged to be married". There is a collective gasp around the table, followed by a series of excitable noises. Helena flails her arms in typical Helena fashion. "Oh, how wonderful!" She cries, "You've kept that quiet". Nevin jerks his head and reaches for his wine glass again. My smile subsides ever so slightly, and I begin to feel a frown forming on my face. He didn't look like a man on the verge of a happy marriage. He looked almost...trapped.

"So who is the lucky lady?" Mrs Cameron asks brightly. Nevin blinks at her briefly. I had been quite right. He definitely wasn't as over the moon about this particular development as he should be. "Jennifer Finchley. Isn't it?" Helena butts in, much to the annoyance of both myself and Nevin, "We've all seen the pictures in-".

"I'm not marrying Jennifer Finchley" Nevin snaps, and if it wasn't for the causal conversation Ian Cameron and my father were having at the far end of the table, a most awkward silence would have descended. "I'm marrying Eva Smith, my secretary at RBS" my brother states. The name should have brought him joy. From what I could see, it only seemed to bring him agony. My poor, poor brother. Whatever had he done to get himself into this?

"That's rather unprofessional" Fraser notes, the journalist within him seeping out. Nevin chuckles for the first time that evening and pushes his chair back. He seizes his wine glass and makes his way over to the door. "If you'll excuse me for a moment" he says, "I'll jut fetch another bottle". We fall quiet for a moment. Fraser looks down at his plate, playing idly with the food that remains on it.

"Anyway, how have things been at Carlton Communications, David?" Mother asks kindly, as keen as any of us to move on, "Has it been as interesting as your time as an adviser?".

"At times it can be rather tedious, and I do wish I hadn't left my party's employ, but overall I enjoy it" he replies, "It's good to get some experience outside of politics, of course". His cold blue eye dart briefly in my direction. I narrow my own. It was quite obvious what David was striving to do. He was after a seat in Parliament. It would be hypocritical for me to berate him for that, of course, given my own aspirations growing up.

"Perhaps I should phone Tony" I say, "It seems we have a future challenger in our midst".


	28. Rumbles in the Distance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Elizabeth's adversaries calls by, except the timing is not at all convenient.

**8th June, 1999.**

**The Treasury, London.**

My vision begins to fall out of focus slightly as Ed hands me yet another piece of paper. My job seemed to consist of reading pieces of paper. All of them looked the same, and bore similar content, but nonetheless there was often something interesting among them. Two years in, and the economic signs were good. The launch of a new 'single currency' within Europe had caused much ruckus in the economic world. There were some who believed we should join, but I was very much against it. I saw little point in ditching the pound. "The Guardian's political editor will be calling by tomorrow morning" Ed informs me, "He expects an interview". I raise an eyebrow. How very courteous of him.

"He'll have to wait. I've got briefing to do before Treasury questions tomorrow" I reply, "Say, have you got the latest growth figures?". Ed adjusts his spectacles and reaches into one of the red boxes lying open on my desk. "Surely you should know them by heart?" Comes a voice from the doorway. Because of the warmer weather, I had decided to keep my office door open. I resist the urge to groan and instead look up with a smile. There stands Francis Maude, the Shadow Chancellor. He smirks most irritatingly, as Andy looks on from behind him with an apologetic look on his face. "I was about to tell you that he was coming" he says. I nod to Andy and get to my feet. "Don't worry, Andy" I reassure him, feigning a smile at my Conservative visitor, "Thank you for showing Mr Maude in. Ed, could you excuse us?". Ed nods and scurried away to talk to Andy outside, shutting the office door as he does so.

"What brings you to this dark corner?" I ask, sitting back down again, "Have you come for my help?". Francis chuckles lightly, and takes the seat opposite me. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" He asks, and I know he doesn't really care for the answer, "I'd imagine you're terribly busy". I jerk my head and look to the masses of paper scattered across my desk. "This is indeed what hard work looks like. Do feel free to take notes if you wish" I retort, not bothering to disguise the ice in my voice, "We haven't bankrupted the country as your colleagues predicted, and we're rather focused on keeping it that way. And we've got those all important European elections coming up". Francis nods and looks about my office with interest. I watch his eyes. It was as though he was inspecting the case. I suspected he feared for the decor, perhaps thinking that we in the Labour Party had destroyed Whitehall the minute we'd arrived. Or perhaps he looked around in envy? "Thinking of measuring for the curtains?" I quip, noting the look in his eye. Francis chuckes again and clears his throat.

"I called by to ask whether or not you were planning on conducting any research on this single currency business" he tells me, and I'm grateful to him for finally getting to the point, "Of course, my own party is doing just that but I suspect it may be useful for people to hear from the government". I arch an eyebrow and smile slyly.

"I didn't realise you had such trust in us" I smirk. Francis squirms slightly and begins to turn a shade of light pink. "This is an important issue" he goes on, "There are some in your party who think joining this new single currency would be good for Britain. Your party needs to do more to condemn it". I simply look up at him from my desk.

"I don't need to be told by the Opposition what it is my party needs to do. With respect, sir, we are the government now. We, myself especially, shan't be lectured" I tell him coldly, "We won't condemn it. We will merely state that we have no intention to join it. That is all". I take up my pen again and look back to my paperwork. Francis almost sneers, and makes for the door in a considerably worse mood than when he entered though it. Just before he reached for the knob, he turns.

"You know, I was reading a letter in The Telegraph this morning about the Euro. It was from a woman who had voted Labour at the last election" Francis tells me, and with a sigh I turn my eyes back in his direction, "She was disappointed that your party hadn't opposed it as strongly as it should. She's planning on voting Conservative at the European elections because of it". Ah. He was trying to some how get one up on me, or even scare me. I simply stare, and smile as kindly as I can.

"I've been reading The Telegraph too" I reply, "I saw an interesting article about a former Tory cabinet minister by the name of Jonathan Aitken. Have you heard of him? He's been sent to prison for perjury, hasn't he?". Francis' top lip twitches, and with silent angry he glares at me. Aitken had been my opposite number before the general election, something Francis Maude new. It was always rather amusing to see an old foe defeated, and even more so to see a current foe suffer for it. Francis opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by a sudden shout.

We both start slightly and look in the direction of the noise. It seemed to be coming from outside the door, perhaps down the corridor. There is another shout. A heated argument was taking place somewhere, and I had a horrible feeling it involved Gordon. Francis opens the door and pokes his head out. I get to my feet and follow suit. Andy and Ed are cowering at the doorway to my section of the Treasury, both looking out into the corridor with strained expressions. I brush past Francis and join the two advisers at the door. I almost roll my eyes at what I see.

There, some distance away, stand Alastair and Gordon, facing one another, fists clenched, brows furrowed as deeply as possible. "What in God's name are they fighting about?" I ask Ed.

"I'm not too sure" he replies, dark eyes wide in fear, "Alastair mentioned something about Number Eleven not giving Number Ten something. Figures, I think". I sigh and fold my arms. Alastair very often acted as Tony's hit man, so to speak; he would appear at any department to give any minister a bollocking the minute they stepped a toe out of line. Most departments conceded to him, with frightening tales of the terrifying Alastair Campbell being passed between civil servants and ministers. We at the Treasury, however, were not quite as subservient. Ours had long been an independent building, of course, with spats between the Treasury and Downing Street dating back many, many years.

"We're trying to run a government here" Alastair says through gritted teeth, "And your office is refusing to give us information. Why are you so determined to make life difficult for us?".

"Why are you so determined to bully my people into giving you research we haven't even completed yet?" Gordon snaps back, "We'll give you what you want when we're ready. I won't have you or Tony breathing down my neck all the time". Alastair shakes his head and points a finger in Gordon's face.

"You're doing this on purpose" he roars, "Grow up, Gordon, and do your fucking job". Andy gulps. Ed and I can only look at one another in dismay. Should I intervene? I felt rather useless watching on from the sidelines. I'd been in many an argument, and I confess that my temper isn't as good as it could be, but this was a situation I wanted defused.

"I would if you'd stop trying to smother me constantly" Gordon cries angrily, "I'm sick of you always trying to trip me up. Scuttle back to Downing Street and take your place on Tony's lap".

"I beg your-".

"Alright, children, if you could perhaps calm down" I call, "This is in fact Her Majesty's Treasury, not a playground. If you wish to have an altercation, have it quietly and out of sight". Alastair turns on me.

"Don't-" he begins. I glare at him.

"I'm telling you to have this little argument elsewhere. You said yourself, Alastair, we're trying to run a government" I cut him off, voice firm, "If we could all remember to behave like statesmen, that would be marvellous. Now go. Both of you". Gordon turns his tired gaze towards me momentarily before stalking off down the corridor. Alastair sighs in frustration and heads off in another direction. I would speak to both of them later. I felt like a mother keeping her unruly children from fighting. As the only woman involved in the creation of New Labour, I suspected my role in this government may be that of a mother.

"Well, that certainly was entertaining" Francis comments with a small grin, "Things certainly weren't this lively when I was in government". Rubbish, I think to myself. I look back towards the door and raise an eyebrow.

"You can leave too".


	29. Orange Birds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth momentarily breaks ranks to witness the election of a great man indeed.

**9th August, 1999.**

**Birmingham, England.**

I'd sat in many conference halls in my life, and was well accustomed to their noisy and heated atmospheres, but not for a long time had I been sat in the audience. It felt rather odd to be on ground level, perched down on a seat that was far from comfortable, towards the back of a hall filled to the brim with excited activists. I found myself more than once gazing up at the stage before me, part of me longing for conference season in which I could waltz up and stand before the lectern to comfort delegates with the word of New Labour.

I myself was rather excited really, though I daredn't show it. My location in the hall, as well as the fact I was flanked by a security guard and Andy, meant that I was away from the attention of most. It looked rather odd, no doubt, for a minister of my colours to be sat waiting for the results of a Liberal Democrat leadership election. I was tempted to creep forward and have a word with Charles before the announcement came, but I thought perhaps I would be better off staying where I was. For now at least. I would have to speak to Charles at some point. It would be rude of me not to congratulate him, after all.

My first meeting with Charles Kennedy had been a barely significant one, in reality. We had stumbled upon one another whilst stepping outside to cigarette, something which I had since given up. Our small conversation that day had some how led to a great friendship. Of course, we had political differences, but there was nothing that couldn't be thrashed out over a bottle of wine. Debating, often with feigned malice, was key to our relationship. No doubt I would find time to challenge him on some of the points made in the acceptance speech he was bound to make shortly.

"How did you vote, dear?" An elderly woman asks, laying a hand upon Andy's knee. Andy blinks at her. "Hughes" he replies. I raise an eyebrow at him. I could forgive him if he had panicked, I suppose. Andy mouthes a 'sorry' to me as the elderly woman continues to chatter away to him, and so I smile. I soon feel someone tap my shoulder. Fighting back a sigh, I turn slightly in my chair. I'm faced by a fairly young looking fellow with red hair, much lighter than my own, and large teeth. I found he rather reminded me of an Aardman character.

"Oh, it is you" the man says, accent notably thick in its Northern twang, "You see, John, I told you it was her". He elbows the gentleman sitting beside him in the ribs and grins at me. His grin was reminiscent of Tony's, though his possessed a certain goofiness. "Pardon me, Ms Nelson, but what exactly is a member of the Cabinet doing here?" The man asks.

"Gosh, has Paddy Ashdown been offered a Cabinet role?" I reply sarcastically, "And I thought the days of cooperation between Labour and the Lib Dems were over". The man chuckles slightly and offers me his hand. For reasons of courtesy, I shake it. "I'm Tim" he says, "I am curious as to why you're here, though". I resist another sigh. I hadn't a clue why this Tim fellow, as nice as he seemed, was talking to me, but manners had been drilled into me as a child.

"I'm here to see my friend elected as leader of his party" I state simply, "Charles is clearly the best man for the job".

"Don't you worry for your own party's chances because of him?" Tim asks, and it's a fair question. I simply smile.

"To an extent" I answer, "Charles is the better politician, after all".

* * *

 

Proportional representation was lengthy, and perhaps irritatingly slow, but it produced good results. As predicted, Charles took his place on the stage and made his speech. Finally the leader of the party, and, despite what that Tim fellow has highlighted earlier, I could not have been prouder.

After listening to the speech, and even applauding at some moments, I had seized Andy, careful to not let him get lost in the hordes of Lib Dems huddled around in the hall, and gone off to find Charles. "Are you defecting?" One journalist had shouted to me as I made my way backstage to greet the new champion. I was too focused on my mission to care. No doubt The Express or the like would try and scrape together a story, but it would amount to nothing.

"I've only been leader of the party for five minutes and I've already converted you" comes a familiarly warm voice as Andy and I stay put for a moment. I turn to Charles and hug him. "Congratulations" I say, for I really do mean it, "It was well deserved". Charles thanks me and pats me on the shoulder. "I just hope I can do as good a job as Paddy" he tells me.

"You will do. In fact, I'm sure you'll surpass even Paddy" I insist, "As long as you don't start stealing our seats, of course".

"Don't count on it" Charles winks, "Say, you haven't come all the way out here for me, have you?". I roll my eyes at him.

"I was actually on my way back from a policy launch in the area" I say, as technically it was true, "So I just thought I'd call in and eye up the competition". Charles was already a well known man, with a great deal of public support. I did sense that he may end up being quite the threat to our fortunes as a Party. There had, for some time now, been an understanding between Labour and the Liberal Democracts, with some talk of cooperation. Despite my adoration for Charles, I wasn't too keen on the idea, and nor was Charles, it seems.

"Who knows? Perhaps after the next election, we'll squeeze our way into second place" Charles jokes, and to thst suggestion I can't help but laugh, "Don't mock ambition". On a more serious note, many Liberak Democrat would kill for their party to come second at the next general election. I suppose I couldn't blame them, and with the Conservatives in such a dismal state it would have been nice for a decent opposition.

 "Anyway, I'm grateful for your support, I really am" Charles says sincerely, "Let's hope we can stay friends throughout this parliament". We were already used to our frequent private debates over policy and the like, but it would be interesting to see Charles take on Tony in the Commons. They were both very capable parliamentary performers, so who knows what would happen? All I knew is that there would be tension between our two sides at some point".

"Yes" I say, wishing I had something to toast Charles with, "We can only wait and see".


	30. Remembering John.

**11th August, 1999.**

**The Isle of Iona, Scotland.**

As was typical in the Hebrides, we were greeted by a strong breeze when we stepped off the ferry. Iona was but a small place, with a population of but a hundred or two. Some called it the 'heart of Christianity in Scotland'. I was not here for its religious credentials, of course. I was here to see John.

"Steady now" my eldest brother warns the small child holding his hand as we depart the ferry and make our way uphill, "You mustn't rush". I stop and crouch down to face my little boy. He was nearly four now, with thickening red curls that shone in the sunlight, and deep, dark eyes that sparkled in an entirely different way. "Come along now" I beam, as Nevin releases his hand for me, "Perhaps Uncle Nevin will buy you an ice cream later". Little Alex smiles that sweet smile of his and totters along happily by my side as we walk. "Uncle Nevin has just paid for the ferry" my brother retorts. I cast him a glance and raise an eyebrow.

"Uncle Nevin can afford it" I respond, for it was undoubtedly true. He was certainly richer than I. A rising star of the Royal Bank of Scotland, the son of a highly prosperous businessman and the heir to a baronetcy. He was very well placed indeed. Not unlike myself, in fairness. It would be wrong of me to say my background had not benefited me since entering politics. It could often be a curse, of course.

"I've no doubt you can pay for a fair few ice creams either" Nevin says with a smirk, "Did Father go over the inheritance with you?". I narrow my eyes at him.

"I'm not sure I like where this conversation is going" I reply. He was a banking official, I suppose, and I was a key figure in the Treasury. Still, money seemed like such a mundane topic, especially given the importance of my visit to this tiny island.

"After that heart attack, he's not taking any chances. It's best to be prepared, Liz, you know that" Nevin reminds me, expression solemn, "Mother will, naturally, get our home in Oxfordshire, and the apartment in London. And most of his fortune". I had little choice but to go along with this particular conversation. This really was the sort of thing I should be on top of, after all. "Most of it?" I ask, curious as to why our mother wouldn't receive it all, and also curious as to how much exactly 'most' was. Nevin sighs.

"I am to inherit the family home in Nairn, and a fair bit of the fortune. The rest, Father has decided, will be divided between the rest of you" Nevin explains, "You are the second eldest in our family. You will get the second largest amount, and so on and so forth". He sighs again. I can't help but raise an eyebrow. True, it wasn't the happiest of topics, but his mood had deteriorated rather too rapidly. "Still" I say, wanting to brighten the mood slightly, "With all that money, you'll be able to pay for a very lavish wedding". Nevin stuffs his hands into his pockets and looks to be with brighter eyes. "Who's getting married?" He asks. I scoff and shake my head at him in dismay. Initially, I thought he was joking, but his tone was one of genuine inquiry.

"You, my dear" I remind him, and instantly the brightness in his eyes is gone. He diverts their gaze to his feet and says no more. He had been quite the same after announcing his engagement. The very mention of his upcoming wedding seemed to fill him with dread. Before I can say anything else, Alex tugs on my sleeve. I stop and look down. "Look" he cries, finger pointing down to the toe of his wellingtons. I crouch down to look closer. On the tip of his boot was a tiny crab, evidently picked up from dock. The crab didn't move, but simply perched on my son's wellington without a care for its own safety. "Goodness, what's this you've found?" Nevin asks, leaning down to inspect the crab himself, "Have you made a new friend?". Alex giggles slightly and goes to pet the creature. Even if it was small, it was still capable of pinching. "No, no" I warn, "You mustn't touch him. Shall we let him join his friends in the sea instead?". Alex ponders on this for a moment before nodding and turning his keen gaze towards the edge of the ramp upon which we climb. Below was the icy cold sea, not too choppy but in no way calm. Nevin brushes the crab gently from its perch and, bravely in my opinion, holds it in his open palm. "Do you want to say goodbye?" He asks. Alex blinks at the creature once more, eyes wide in wonder at his quirkiness. "Bye bye" he waves, before retreating and snuggling against my legs. Nevin tips the crab into the sea below, and that is that. So simple and short an incident and yet I found it made me smile. 

As we continue our steady climb into the village, this time with Alex, who had clearly found his run in with Mr Crab very taxing, in my arms, Nevin's expression turns solemn again. "What's wrong?" I ask simply, for I feel so genuinely concerned. For a moment, I'm sure I see a tear or two forming in the corner of his eye. My brother, a typical Nelson in his stubbornness, shakes his head and looks away, pretending to be interested in the damp rock we stride along. "You're going to have to tell me eventually, you know" I inform him, and it is undoubtedly true, for, whilst he may be reluctant to concede to me, I nearly always got my way.

* * *

 

'An honest man's the noblest work of God'. Those were the words etched upon the gravestone of John Smith. His was a very private resting place, away from the hubbub of the village and the thrashing of the sea. It was a scenic place of burial, where he lay amongst ancient kings and other mighty figures. Fitting company, I thought, for still, to this day, he remains the greatest man I'll ever know. I often missed him, sometimes sitting back and wondering whether he was somehow watching over me, laughing at my foibles and smiling at my successes.

I stand silently over the spot, watching absently as the gentler breeze that graces the hill brushes against the petals of the flowers I had bought for John. Nevin had remained at the gate of the yard. He hadn't known John, and had perhaps thought that I might like to be alone. He'd offered to watch over Alex for a few moments, but instead I had walked on with him. "Mummy?" He asks me as we stand together over the stone. "Yes?" I ask, expecting him to be curious about our visit. Sure enough, he asks "Why are we here?". I loosen the fastening of my coat and kneel down on the grass.

"Alexander John Nelson" I tell him softly, "You carry the name of one of the greatest people I've ever known. One day I'll explain it all to you. And then you'll come to love him as much as I do". Alex blinks at me, dark eyes brimming with curiosity, and, perhaps understandably, confusion. He certainly had his father's inquisitive nature, even if he didn't have his looks. I hadn't expected one quite so young to be quite so curious. There would be much I'd need to explain to him in future years, of course, but it could all wait.

I turn my attention back to the gravestone and rise again to my full height. John Smith. 1938 to 1994. He had missed so much in the five years he had been away from us. "We did it you know, John" I speak quietly, as if wanting only for the two of us to hear, "We did it". 

* * *

 

It's on the journey home, after little Alex had eaten his promised ice cream and attempted to find Mr Crab again in the sea, that Nevin finally began to speak to me. We sat opposite one another on the ferry, Alex's head rested upon my chest as he napped peacefully. "Say, you're a politician" Nevin states, "How does one deal with mistakes?". I snort quietly and arch an eyebrow.

"A charming question" I reply, "Why, you take responsibility for them, of course". Some would no doubt argue that politicians are incapable of owning up to mistakes. Pride was the downfall of many of us. Nevin taps on his seat and stares off into the distance for a moment or two. He was so very pensive today.

"Take responsibility?" He repeats, "So I am doing the right thing?". He says it to himself, mainly, though he does turn his green gaze to me as though for confirmation. I narrow my own. "What are you talking about?" I ask, perhaps a little bluntly, "What is the right thing? What have you done?". Nevin sighs and rubs his temple in frustration.

"Why do I get the feeling there is something you're not telling me about this sudden engagement of yours?" I question. Nevin stares at me with hopeless eyes, giving me my answer without even moving his lips. "The truth is, I don't want to marry Eva Smith" he tells me, "I don't love her. I'm not sure I could ever love her".

"Then why are you engaged to her?" I respond. Nevin was an intelligent man. He would not be entering into such a thing without a decent reason. I could only speculate on what that reason was. Reason told me it wasn't a good one.

"Because-" my brother begins, before cutting himself off and lowering his tone, "Because I did wrong by her". The problem with middle-class ponces such as ourselves was that we were utterly incapable of getting to the point. There always had to be some form of euphemism or ambiguity or lack of clarity. "Do just tell me, Nevin" I say, growing impatient despite myself, "It cannot be as bad as you think, surely". Nevin's eyes darken, and he lowers his head in guilt.

"I don't know what I was doing, Liz. I was tired, I was slightly drunk, I was _lonely_ " he breathes, and I can tell its difficult for him to condense his troubles into words, "I lost control of all common sense. Do you know what I mean?". He looks up to me hopefully. I find I can relate on some levels. Relatively faint memories of squiffy escapades at conference in '94 spring up at the back of my mind, evoking other memories of a face I hadn't seen in years. "Yes" I tell my brother simply, "I think I do". I hope he can find some reassurance in that.

Silence descends for a while, until I become too impatient to hold back. I was  sure in my suspicions regarding the great offence my brother had caused. I needed only confirmation at this point. "This Eva Smith" I say quietly, "She's pregnant, isn't she?". Nevin looks up at me again with startled eyes, clearly shocked that I had been able to state what was obvious so clearly. Or perhaps he was merely surprised to hear another person say it.

"I have to marry her" he reasons, with himself more than me, "I have to". I'm tempted to remind him that this isn't the 1920s, that we society in which we lived was a modern one, but I knew there was little point. Nevin was tied to this Eva Smith now, and would regret it for many years to come. "You may not love her" I offer, attempting to be pragmatic, "But you will love your child. Perhaps they'll be as clever as their father". Nevin chuckles and rolls eyes.

"Let's just hope they aren't as foolish as I" he says, rubbing his eyes and straightening himself up in his chair, mood clearly brighter now that he had explained himself, "God, to think I'm the black sheep of the family. I never thought one of our lot would get in such a pickle".

"No" I say, softly stroking the thick red curls of my son as he continued to sleep soundly, the ferry moving gently across the waters of the Hebrides, "Nor did I".


	31. An Unexpected Opportunity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for the Chancellor to present his annual Pre-Budget report.  
> Except the Chancellor is no where to be found.

**9th November, 1999.**

**Houses of Parliament, Westminster.**

"Ms Nelson, will you _calm down_ ". I turn on Andrew Turnbull like a hawk rounding on its prey. "The Chancellor of the Exchequer is due to deliver one of the most important annual reports of the parliamentary year, and has disappeared almost without trace" I bite back, "And you have the audacity to tell me to calm down?". Turnbull sighs and places his hands on his hips. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was every bit as annoyed as I, though, unlike me, was able to contain his frustration.

"Are you honestly telling me you have lost the second most powerful man in the country?" I ask, feeling thoroughly fed up. It was only around half-eleven in the morning, and yet I felt as though I had been awake for a decade. "I don't tag him!" Turnbull cries, "He darted off to Scotland for a constituency surgery, and that was the last I heard from him!". I roll my eyes in sheer frustration.

"You're the Permanent Secretary to the Treasury" I remind him.

"And you're his Chief Secretary" he retorts, and I feel as though he did have a point. I'd last spoken to Gordon the previous night, after he had finished his surgery. He'd said quite clearly that he intended on driving back to London this very morning in time for the Pre-Budget Report. Several attempts had been made to reach him, but only in vain. A handful knew about his disappearance. The Civil Service had decided that it would be best kept away from the press, especially on a day when they would be quite literally looking out for Gordon.

"This is a disaster" the Permanent Secretary groaned, composure starting to slip away, "A total balls up". A bespectacled, plump figure gets to his feet in the far corner of the room. "You called?" Ed Balls says. I glare at him unwaveringly. I hadn't even the patience to look at him in this particular moment. "No, we didn't" I correct, "Sit down and be quiet". Balls does as he is told, without argument for a change, and takes his seat again. I look for sanity in an otherwise overwhelmed room.

"Ed?" I beckon for my often ever-present companion to join me. Again, Balls rises to his feet. I rise to my own this time and click my fingers in his direction, like a cross between a strict mother and an impatient dog-owner. "Sit down" I say again. Ed, my Ed that is, shuffles along towards myself and Mr Turnbull. "I've tried to call Sarah, but I've had no answer" he tells us, "Perhaps there has been an accident on the road". I consider the possibility, and wonder whether anyone has tried listening to the latest travel news on the radio yet. "Liz looks as though she's going to have an accident if Gordon doesn't arrive soon" Balls chips in from across the room. I can only be bothered to sigh. I had been waiting for one of his usual irritating comments. He had been surprisingly quiet so far.

"You must try not to get too stressed, Liz" Balls adds, "Especially in, you know, your _condition_ ". I knew, deep down, that Balls meant well, but good God he was annoying. I could barely think of a single occasion at which he hadn't irritated me to the point where I want to tear my own hair out. He was simply insufferable. How Yvette Cooper coped with him, I had no idea. "Balls, I'm two months pregnant" I snap, shooting him yet another disapproving look, "I'm not terminally ill".

Just then, a shrill ringing sounds out. All eyes dart towards the telephone nearest to Ed. He, as anxious as any of us to see Gordon, seizes the receiver and answers. "Gordon!" We hear him cry, and let out a collective sigh of relief. Turnbull practically faints into a nearby chair. "What do you mean you're stuck? Oh I see, the road is blocked" Ed goes on, brows furrowed as though trying to listen over loud noise, "When do you think you'll be able to get here?". I fold my arms and try to take deep breaths. Nervously, my eyes dart towards the clock on the left-side wall. 11:40. I prayed that he was only a short distance away from London. Otherwise, it was highly unlikely that he would be able to make it in time for the statement as was scheduled. Would it have to be postponed? Would the debate that followed have to be put off? Would it cause issues at Prime Minister's Questions before hand? All these questions flew through my mind. It seemed I would have to begin to formulate the answers, as suddenly Ed says "Oh dear. I see". I sink into a nearby box chair and rest my head in my hands.

"Is that allowed?" Ed asks, "She is essentially your deputy, I suppose. But even so-". I look up for a second and furrow my brows. They were talking about me. Not for the reason I suspected, surely? The idea was absurd.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell her" Ed says in a faintly squeaky voice, clearly having just received a mild cussing from Gordon, "I'll ring later. Okay, bye". And with that Ed ends the call and looks to us. It was a frightfully short conversation for so long a wait.

"Well?" Turnbull questions, aging face as white as a sheet, "Where is he?". Ed pushes his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose as he so often did and explained Gordon's situation to us in his usual calm, nasally voice.

"A lorry overturned on a major roadway near the Scottish border" he says, and I begin to regret not checking the travel news as I previously considered, "The entire road had been blocked off so the emergency services can contain the leaks of its cargo".

"Cargo?" I ask, curious.

"Some dangerous chemical or other" Ed replies, scratching the back of his head with his pencil, "The point is, he isn't going to make it. Someone will have to stand in". Turnbull makes an odd noise in protest, before falling quiet as he sank into deep consideration. Soon enough, the eyes of both men were on me. I open my mouth to protest, but Ed stops me.

"We haven't time for tradition or the like at this moment" he tells me plainly, "The House, the press and the public are expecting this report. It needs to be delivered". I stare at him with cold eyes for a moment, perhaps subconsciously hoping that the ice in my glare would dissuade him. Yet Ed remained unchanged, and so I sigh and get to my feet. "Fine" I say, "I'll do it. I did write a fair bit of it, I suppose".


	32. Whispers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet conversation had in the back corridors of Downing Street

**20th March, 2000.**

**Downing Street, London.**

The journey through No. 10 into the Cabinet Room was a very familiar one by now. Every week, for the past three years, I had stepped into the main hallway, through a corridor or two, and then through the large white doors that marked the entrance of the Cabinet. It took all of thirty seconds, provided that I wasn't held up by staff or ambushed by lesser ministers wanting to ask for funding for their pet projects, or to ask for personal backing on something. Sure enough, as I turn a corner, the Minister for Europe springs himself on me.

"If this is about the single currency-" I begin, my eyes instantly narrowing. Keith holds his hands up in defence, and already I begin to groan. "Keith, I've made my position perfectly clear-" I attempt, but he only cuts me off.

"I've been speaking to the Prime Minister" he informs me, most proudly. I blink at him, expecting him to at least develop that particular point. I had talked with Tony about this particular issue once before. He had been in agreement with me, though he seemed to oppose our joining of the Euro due to issues of convenience, rather than principle as I did. "Either make your point, or allow me to move along" I state plainly.

"He told me that the idea of not joining was a crazy one" Keith explains, and to that scoff. I attempt to continue walking, but he only follows me. "We cannot bury our heads in the sand" he argues, "This could be key to a great development in our relationship with Europe. Could the Treasury not at least look into the possibility of joining?".

"We're sufficiently close, thank you" I retort, the eurosceptic senses my father had given me tingling slightly, "Whilst I admire your drive, I simply do not agree. Nor will I ever agree. Now I suggest you save your breath for someone who may". Keith opens his mouth to protest, prompting a sharp glare from me.

"Enough. I don't want to hear it" I caution, teeth gritted slightly as I begin to grow annoyed, "You must excuse me. I too need to have words with Tony". And with that, I continue on my path towards the Cabinet Room. Thankfully, Keith does not pursue, but instead stands still, eyes filled with a mix of nervousness and irritation. I let out a far too audible sigh when I spot Alastair standing on the far end of the corridor.

"And they say I'm the frightening one" he quips, to which I only roll my eyes, "You should be careful. You don't want to make any more enemies, you know". His tone suggested that no such enemies really existed, or at least they were of no threat. Despite this, I was still curious. "Enemies, you say?" I ask casually, "I am of the Treasury, am I not?". Alastair jerks his head. We were now walking along the corridor side by side, and so I get the feeling he had actually been waiting for me, rather than finding me coincidentally. "True" Alastair reasons, "Though you may like to think about attending anger management classes. Various junior ministers have said you're rather irritable". I raise my eyebrows. I didn't see the reason behind this particular criticism, other than to try and make me uncomfortable. Unfortunately for Alastair, I had always very much understood my temper, or lack of it. I wasn't rude, I didn't bully- I merely got annoyed by certain people, usually those who persistently tried to stall me and talk down to me.

"I thank you for your advice. Perhaps we could attend them together?" I reply, giving Alastair a sweet smile. He laughs under his breath and checks his watch briefly. "Seeing as we have a few minutes, and I'm in a good mood, I'll just have a quiet word with you, if I may?" He asks, leading me to the edge of the corridor so that we weren't blocking the path of any incoming staffers or officials. "It seems you're going to anyway" I sigh, "If this is about the bloody Euro-".

"Tony is moving you" Alastair tells me bluntly, "Or at least, he's seriously considering it". I furrow my eyebrows. Move me? For what reason? Was I on the verge of a demotion? Had I offended him in some way? From my perspective, we had a very good relationship. We got along very well, on most occasions at least. I'd even dined with him a fair few times. "Before you bite me" Alastair says, "You're not being moved because he doubts you or your ability. He's also very fond of you". My brows only furrow even more.

"Then do tell me what the issue is" I respond stiffly.

"He sees that you are, essentially, one of Gordon's. The two of you are practically insperable at the Treasury" Alastair tells me, "Like I say, he likes you very much, and so he's keen on trying to, let's say, ease you from Gordon's teat". I scoff and arch an eyebrow.

"A fine choice of words, sir" I shoot.

"The point is" Alastair continues, "He thinks giving you a new department might, well, broaden your thought a little. Take you away from the Brown-centric air of the Treasury and allow you to make your own way elsewhere". I blink at him, processing the words he had just uttered. I found myself slightly perplexed. What exactly was Tony's reasoning behind all this? I had a fairly good idea, but my respect for him prevented me from believing it wholeheartedly.

"So Tony is only concerned about my own career prospects?" I ask slyly, "It's nothing to do with the fears of No. 10 that the Treasury are too powerful?". Alastair shakes his head and sticks his hands in his pockets, regaining his casual persona. "I never took you for a cynic" he says. For a moment I look at him almost bitterly. I hadn't at all liked what I heard, I'd decided. Though I couldn't help but feel there may have been something in Alastair's 'reasoning', even if it had been feigned by him. Tony may want me moved for alternative reasons, but there was nothing to stop me from seeking higher office, surely? I did love Gordon so very much, and thoroughly enjoyed working alongside him, but the idea of moving along seemed an increasingly appetising one.

"Why have you told me this?" I ask, for I am genuinely curious, "You're supposed to be a loyal henchman of Tony's". Alastair smiles at me briefly.

"I am" he tells me, "I thought it would be best that you know the reality of the situation before any offer is made. So that you're not told some cynical dribble about tearing the Brownite faction apart from someone". By someone he clearly meant 'No. 11. It was like being witness to a civil war in the making. There had been tensions between Tony and Gordon for many years, and I had been witness to many an argument, but things seemed to have been exacerbated in recent years by petty squabbles between separate groups at Downing Street. It was quite like having two rival schools next to one another- one thought themselves superior to the other.

"Now, we must end this whispering for now" Alastair says, clapping his hands together and raising his voice to its usual volume, "We have a Cabinet meeting to attend, I believe. And it seems the man of the table is going to beat us to it". He nods behind me and smiles. I turn. Tony, papers tucked his arm, returns the smile broadly. "Come along now, you two, enough chatting" he says merrily, and we follow as he makes his way down into the Cabinet Room, "Much to discuss". He stops momentarily and touches my shoulder. "Oh yes, and I should like to have a word with you, Liz, afterwards" Tony says, and from the corner of my eye I see Alastair glance at me knowingly, "If that's alright with you, of course?". The topic of that particular conversation was obvious, and thanks to Alastair I was well equipped to question him on the motives of my movement. For I couldn't help but doubt what exactly they were.

"Yes, yes" I say, thoughts brewing ever more inside my mind, "By all means, Prime Minister".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony is quite clearly keen for Elizabeth to move away from the Treasury and take a greater role in another department. He wants only the best for her career!  
> Or,  
> Is he only keen for Elizabeth to move away from Gordon?
> 
> I thought it would be interesting to really play around with the whole Blair/Brown rivalry, and try to incorporate Liz into it.  
> I liked the idea of the two not quite fighting over her, but maybe fighting over control of her? Or her backing?  
> It's a compliment to Liz, really, even though it might not seem like it. They both value her, and want her on THEIR side.  
> I don't no, I'm probably rambling now xD  
> Thoughts?


	33. The Garden Party.

**29th March, 2000.**

**A pleasant garden in London.**

The Spectator always threw such interesting parties. Everyone of importance in Westminister circles was there. It was one of the few places people of all affiliations could mingle without animosity. The friendliness expressed between many was predominantly fueled by alcohol, of course. "Is that man quite alright?" Lionel asks me quietly, nodding over to a quiet corner of the garden in which a clearly intoxicated Andrew Marr was slumped against the wall. "He's probably asleep" I reply, glancing around to see if any of Marr's fellow journalists were in the process of taking a photo, "He won't be the last".

"I didn't think events such as these would be so...boozy" Lionel comments, momentarily looking down at his own partially filled glass. I raise an eyebrow at him. "How else do you expect us all to get along so well?" I remark. It was true, to an extent.

"Take it steady, old girl" A voice boomed as a large hand claps me on the shoulder, making me spill a little of my wine on the grass. I roll my eyes as a large, bumbling man with blonde hair stumbles forward to face me. "Likewise, Johnson" I reply coolly, "Good to see you letting yourself go again. You won't do anything stupid this time, will you?". Boris scratches his blonde bush of a scalp and shrugs. "I don't know, old bean, I leave it to chance" he mumbles, "Say, who is this you've brought along? Are we familiar?". Lionel clears his throat and studies Johnson with a most confused expression.

"Boris, we've known each other for years" he says plainly, to which Boris can only drunkenly blink. Johnson claps my husband on the arm hard before tottering away talking to himself. I turn my nose up as I watch him walk away. I had never liked Boris Johnson. There was something about him that I distrusted. He was also far too forward, for my liking. I was used to advances from unwelcome men, but few had been as persistent as Johnson.

"Should you be drinking?" Lionel asks, turning to my suddenly. I'd already explained this to him when the glass of wine had been handed to me. "I am allowed a little" I remind him, grateful for a bit of alcohol after a long day, "I'm not intending on getting plastered if that is what you're worried about". Lionel still doesn't seem sure. He didn't look at all comfortable at this party. For a journalist, he was dreadfully out of place with the establishment. Heaven forbid he became the editor of the FT one day. Events such as this would be common practice for him in that case.

"Don't feel you have to stay if you don't want to" I tell him, "There are plenty of colleagues around. No doubt one of them will be able to escort me home". I can tell Lionel is tempted by the idea.

"Elizabeth!" Nevin calls, approaching us with a glass of his own in hand. I smile at him before furrowing my brows momentarily. "What are you doing here?" I ask, "I didn't realise you'd been invited". Nevin turns and nods over to two men, one young one older, talking animatedly not too far away. One of them I recognise to be Fraser, my younger brother, with the other being Andrew Neil. "Fraser invited me" Nevin says, "He seems to have quite the contacts these days". Fraser's growing success in journalism was undeniable. He was a talented writer, and a capable interrogator where necessary. I'd no doubt he would end up an editor himself one day. "Have you brought anyone along?" I ask, noticing that there was no stunningly attractive, young blonde attached to his arm as had often been the case in times past. Nevin clears his throat, and to me he looks almost pained. He gestures to someone on a part of the garden I cannot quite see, and from almost no where emerges a young, certainly younger than myself, curvy woman with straight auburn hair and pale blue eyes. She strides up to us and takes her place at my brother's side. I had never seen this woman before, but I knew exactly who she was.

"This is Eva" Nevin says, enthusiasm not in any way present in his voice, "My fiancé". I was surprised he hadn't collapsed at the very word. I really did feel such pity for my brother. I was the only one who knew of the reality of their engagement. Nevin was usually so jolly a person, and yet here he stood in a state of perpetual misery. I narrow my eyes as Eva smiles at me. "It's good to meet you, Elizabeth" she says, and instantly I detect a Glaswegian accent. It was much gruffer and less eloquent than our own. Then again, we had no doubt been brought up in a very different household to that of this Eva Smith. Her cool blue eyes turn towards Lionel, and irritatingly I see mischief develop within them.

"I don't think I know this face" she says, offering her hand. Lionel smiles at her kindly and shakes it. "Lionel. Lionel Barber" he introduces himself. Eva withdraws her hand and then smiles somewhat coyly. "You're supposed to kiss it" she says, "And here's me thinking you were a gentleman". I see Nevin roll his eyes from the corners of my own. Perhaps this was why he wasn't too keen on her. Amusingly, of course, it was his failure to resist the charms this woman, who was now deploying the same tactics on my husband, that had got him in to such a mess in the first place. "You don't look too comfortable here" Eva goes on, now seeming to focus solely on Lionel, "Rich people, who needs them?". My eyebrows furrow sharply, and I open my mouth to argue, but Nevin gives me a small kick in the foot. "I'm rather tired now" Eva says airily, raising a hand to her forehead as if she'd broken a sweat, "Can't we go now?". For the first time in several moments she actually looks at Nevin. "We've been here for less than fifteen minutes" he reminds her.

"You know I can't be out on my feet for too long. I mustn't do anything too strenuous, not in my condition" she argues, "Do you never listen to me?". She places her hands on her curvy hips and looks impatiently to my brother. Whilst he looks on her with nothing short of pure loathing, I fight back a snarl. "My condition". This woman was less than three months pregnant. And here I stood, bump now obvious, approximately two months away from my due date. I'd been on my feet most of the day, rushing about the Commons and the Treasury like a hyperactive bee.

"If you're that eager to leave, call a cab" Nevin reasons. To that Eva tuts. "I'm not getting in a cab by myself" she protests, and with every syllable I see Nevin pushed further and further to breaking point. To my surprise, Lionel intervenes. "Why don't I drive you home?" He suggests. I turn to him sharply and stare. "You said you would be happy to find an alternative escort" he said, "Besides, I'm quite done here". Nevin and I glance at one another briefly before nodding in unison. Lionel smiles at me and gives me a peck on the cheek. "I'll see you later" he says, leading the way from the garden for Eva, "Be careful". I wave to him, and once both he and Eva are gone, I turn to my brother. "Nevin" I say in a hushed voice, "I apologise for being rude, but I think your fiancé may be a bit of a bitch".

* * *

 "So what of these rumours I hear?" William Hague asks me slyly, one of the few statesmen at the party who wasn't at all drunk, "Is a promotion on the horizon?". I smile sweetly.

"You'll be the last the know" I quip. William chuckles lightly at that and jerks his head slightly. "One does here curious stories from number ten" he goes on, in his usual Northern drawl. I raise an eyebrow at him.

"One also learns to pay no heed to 'curious stories'" I say. I myself was no doubt guilty of gossiping, but as a member of government I found it incredibly frustrating when tales were spread about the conduct of my colleagues. In fairness, of course, we had no doubt been as equally irritating when we were in opposition. "Well, some of that which I do hear, silly stories or not, do raise questions indeed" William says, and under my breath I sigh heavily, "Constant spin. Bullying. Not quite the better politics your party advocated". I remain unfazed. True, there was very often tension in Downing Street, which sometimes led to the intimidation of staff from the warring sides that had become 10 and 11. William didn't need to know about the extent of the rifts opening up before us, of course.

"No doubt the public would like to hear a little more about those petty little stories you so quickly dismiss" William adds, attempting what I think is a sly expression. "Goodness, have you ever considered working for the Murdochs?" I retort.

"Since we're on the subject of talk in number ten, have you any idea when the next general election will be?" William asks, and for a moment I'm astonished by his candidness. Perhaps he had ingested more alcohol than first thought.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I reply, laughing slightly despite myself. William feigns a kind smile and shrugs his shoulders. "Do I want to know the date at which I'll see my party win? Of course I do" he says, and to my side Jack Straw splutters on his drink.

"How very optimistic" I simply say, before walking away to leave William scratching his increasingly bald head. Jack begins to walk alongside me, now recovered from his near choking incident. He speaks in a hushed tone. "As decent as that rebuke was" he tells me, "Hague is right. Liz, you know what happened the other day. Mandelson and Alastair started throwing punches at one another, for goodness sake". It had been quite the incident, and one that would have been funny had my fear not overtaken me. A simple disagreement had developed into a fierce argument, at the end of which Peter had seized Alastair by the lapel. I had spent about an hour that attempting to calm Peter down by taking him for a stroll around London and allowing him to vent his frustrations. I'd also spoken to Alastair, having a cup of tea with him to try and look for a resolve between the two of them. I felt like a Foreign Office minister attempting to reach peace between two warring countries. Either than or a fed up headmaster wanting to avoid further altercations between her students. Again, it seemed, I was playing mother.

"You know what the root of all this is, of course" Jack says solemnly. I sigh and look to him almost sadly. "Gordon" I admit. It was difficult to form a decent partnership with someone when you considered yourself to be better than your partner. "I spoke to him recently about the prospect of an election soon" Jack tells me gravely, "He seemed to be under the impression that Tony would leave half way through a second term. Most bizarre, I thought". I nod.

"Neither of us can speculate on what is on Tony's mind, I fear" I say, "They're two deeply intricate people of large personalities. They always were going to clash". Now Jack seems somewhat irritated. He got along with Gordon perfectly well, but it had always been clear to me that he sympathised with Tony much more. "One of these days there is going to be an almighty fall out" he warns, "I can see it. And we'll all suffer when it happens". As much as I dismissed his prophecy of doom, I did feel there was some truth to it.

"Well" I sigh, "We're all in it together, I suppose".


	34. Dilemmas.

**9th April, 2000.**

**Westminster, London.**

It was hard to envision members of the Cabinet gathered together for a simple tea party. And yet here they were, sat around the kitchen table of my London apartment, with a few extra chairs stuck at the very ends for those who could not fit in. The weather outside was dreadful, and so we had all retreated inside. Wanting to keep this an informal discussion, I had requested that everyone bring along something. Andy had baked a rather burnt looking cake, which John Prescott eyed up hungrily, whilst Jack had opted for a trifle his wife had made, which John also eyed up.

"Why do I get the impression you're about to announce something terrible?" Charles, the token Liberal Democrat at the table, asks, looking about the various different puddings around him. I arch an eyebrow at him as I set down a pot of fresh tea. "Is it so unusual of me to host an event of goodwill?" I ask sarcastically. He merely shoots me a knowing look.

"I note that you asked us to bring the food" Margaret Beckett quips. Ed snorts into his tea. "That's probably because Liz can't cook" he says with a grin, much to the delight of Andy, who laughs behind his hand. Charles simply nods.

"Yes, thank you, Ed" I say, directing a feigned look of annoyance his way. It was very much true, after all. I had never been a very good cook. I'd never really been given the time or patience to learn how. "Now, as I'm sure you can all sense, I've invited you here with a great sense of purpose" I say, easing myself into a seat at the head of the table, "I find myself in somewhat of a pickle". As suspected, thus comes a collection of admittedly funny comments.

"You're defecting to the SNP?"

"The baby is William Hague's?"

"Your parents have had to move into a house with only ten rooms?"

I sigh and lift my tea cup from its saucer, taking a sip whilst Peter Hain tried to calm down, clearly tickled by Jack's joke about William Hague. "You are allowed to start eating if you wish, John" I inform the Deputy Prime Minister, noting the longing in his eyes as he gazed at the scones my mother had made, "There is no etiquette to these things. Then again, it doesn't usually stop you". Once John had chosen what he wanted first, I allowed myself to go on.

"Now, you must all promise to keep this strictly between yourselves" I say, "This could be a very important matter indeed". My guests nod in unison and listen intently.

"It seems I may be on the edge of a promotion" I announce, "Alastair cornered me at No. 10 recently and told me that Tony was considering moving me from the Treasury". Most smile at me, pleased to hear that I may soon be of elevated position. If I accepted whatever offer did come my way, of course. John, however, was more sceptical.

"I don't mean to be pessimistic, but how do you know it will be a promotion?" He asks. Initially, I had worried that I might be on the verge of demotion. I was worried that I hadn't worked to Tony's expectations of me at the Treasury and so he had decided to move me elsewhere, to a position of lesser authority. However, since Alastair first hinted all of this too me, Tony had consulted me over a piece of legislation over which I, the Chief Secretary had absolutely no authority whatsoever...

"The other week, after a briefing session, Tony asked me about a piece the Ministry of Defence have been working on" I explain, remembering our meeting, and the suspicion I had felt during it, clearly, "A draft of the Military Covenant. It's supposed to be steered by the Defence Secretary, not by me". Jack's eyes widen ever so slightly.

"He's making you Defence Secretary?" He exclaims. I shrug my shoulders and reach for my tea again. "I don't know" I tell him, "But why would he ask me about a piece of legislation currently being worked on by Defence? I'd perhaps understand it if he'd asked me about the economic ramifications of the Covenant, but he didn't". There is a moment of quiet as we all take a moment to think. Suddenly, Andy clicks his fingers. We all start slightly and look to him expectantly.

"I went to Downing Street the other day to collect some papers from No. 11 for you, and as I reached the door, Geoff Hoon stormed out. He looked cross" Andy explains, "I asked him what was wrong, but he just waved his hand at me and marched off muttering to himself. I think he'd just been in a meeting with Tony". I think on that for a moment. Geoff had been in a frightful mood when I last saw him. We were on good terms, but we're not friends, and so I hadn't felt obliged to ask him what angered him so. I begin to wonder whether I'd missed any vengeful looks of his directed at Tony, any snide remarks made under his breath. Was Geoff really on his way out of Defence? And to make way for me?

"Well then" Harriet says, smiling softly at me, "Perhaps our next Defence Secretary will be a woman?". I do my best to return her smile, but find my mind plagued by the dilemma I hoped to put to my friends here. "You see, that's why I wanted to speak to you all" I say, "Say Tony does offer me a promotion. Should I take it?". Most gathered near nod heartily and babble their approval. The reaction I look for first, however, is that of Ed. He doesn't look at all convinced. In a way, he seems almost saddened by the idea.

"Of course you should take it" Margaret tells me, "How could you refuse a position like that?".

"But it would mean you'll be leaving the Treasury" Ed pipes up, light brown eyes fixing on me sadly. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "That's exactly the problem" I reply, "I love working at the Tresury. I enjoy my work there. I enjoy the company of the people there". Moving away from the Treasury would mean I would no longer see Gordon every day, nor would I see Ed every day. The two of them were great friends to me, and often I found myself utterly dependent on them. Too dependent perhaps?

"It's not as though you'll never see Gordon and the others ever again" Harriet suggests soothingly, "You just won't work so closely". That reminds me of Alastair's words. He had tried to argue that by continuing to work at the Treasury, I would be forever overshadowed by Gordon. That I was wasting my abilities there. That I needed to 'broaden my horizons' and find a political identity of my own. However, I still couldn't shake the feeling that his actual motivation was simply to get me away from Gordon. Like a chess piece, perhaps, I would be moved to strike a blow to the opposing side, in this case Gordon and his 'faction'. If I was to be a chess piece, I wouldn't settle as a pawn.

"I think not working so closely with Gordon may be the reason why Tony wants me moved" I confess, "We all know what continues to bubble between the two of them. They both seem to think there are sides, factions perhaps, and naturally I am sorted onto Gordon's side". I wouldn't complain about being on 'Gordon's side', at the end of the day. I cared for Tony a great deal, but Gordon had always been like family to me.

"Tony values you a great deal" Jack reasons, "No doubt he thinks moving you away from Gordon would mean he is better able to cooperate with you". The more I think on that argument, the more it makes sense to me. Had I become a lot more blinkered than I realised? Was I beginning to see things only in Gordon's eyes?

"You're very bright, and you're also very young" comes a familiar voice. I spin around to see Peter standing in the doorframe. He would have looked rather sinister had he not been holding a yogurt pot. Hains finds him a chair and sets it down for him. Some around the table look almost nervous. Peter had always had that effect on some.

"You need to be able to spread a little. Discover what else you're capable of" Peter tells me, removing the lid of his yoghurt and submerging a spoon inside, "Pouring over economics and equations and the like year after year will do you no favours. You've got great potential. You need to do something different". I sigh. I suppose it would be interesting to do something different. As much as I loved my job, I didn't particularly want to be stuck at the Treasury permanently. Perhaps it would do me good to try my hand at a new department, as Peter said?

"Oh, say you'll accept if an offer comes along" Harriet beams, taking my hand in her own. I look about the table. Andy simply smiles at me, Ed still looks rather unsure, and Jack and Margaret nod to me. John is too preoccupied by Andy's sponge cake initially, but eventually looks up to give me a wink.

"Have you talked to Gordon about this?" Ed asks curiously. I shake my head. In all honesty, I wasn't too sure what he reaction would be if I did tell him.

"I haven't, no. I fear he'll automatically see it as an attack on him" I respond, "I'm not too keen on damaging relations between the two of them any further".

"Well, we're all political people" Peter says, "Let's settle this the democratic way. All those who think Liz should accept an offer if one is made?". I roll my eyes at Peter's suggestion, but look around the table to see what the response was all the same. Harriet, Jack, John, both Peters, Andy and Margaret all raise their hands. The only one of my guests who does not is Ed. Ed's judgement was, quite possibly, worth more to me than that of any one else present. I relied on his advise and counsel on a daily basis. I look to him, studying the conflict in his eyes. I could tell he did not like the idea of me moving on from the Treasury, and from him, at all. Yet, there was something else in his eyes. Understanding, perhaps?

Slowly, he too raises his hand. Every one sat around the table looks to me, as if waiting for a final word of some sort. I had asked them here for their judgement, and I had received it. The only issue was, I still wasn't sure of what to do with it. Was I warming to the idea of a promotion? Certainly. Was I in any way sure of whether I should accept such a thing? No. With these questions in mind, I turn back to the various different desserts and cakes that had been brought along.

"Well" I say, clearing my throat, wanting now to move on from our debate, "I've developed quite the appetite now".


	35. War.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so now we fast forward , and it seems Elizabeth is faced with yet more difficult decisions. These decisions, however, have much more gravity than the question of a promotion...

**28th August, 2003.**  
**London, England.**

  
The night was filled with dust, or it might be ash. Tiny fragments flew about the air, threatening to choke me. Blindly, I struggle through. Explosions near and far sound out around me, and in the distance, beyond the dark clouds that gather before me, I hear the calling of men. There is silence for a moment, and with heavy breath I stop moving. Suddenly, I hear gun fire. It gets faster and faster, louder and louder, until I can hear it right behind me. Panicking, I duck and fall to my knees on sandy ground. Desperate to find a way from the bullets, I begin to crawl, limbs shaking in sheer terror, searching for a way out. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground. But as I crawl, I notice something lying up ahead. It was a body. The further I get, the more I begin to see. There lay a man, still young in years, his face smothered with dust. He wore a light army uniform, and emblazoned on his right shoulder was a Union Jack. I suddenly found I could move no further. This man was dead. I jump slightly as shrill ringing sound blasts out from above.

  
And then I find myself not on a dusty battlefield, but lying in bed. I take a deep breath and put a hand to my forehead. I had been sweating slightly, and my hair was sticking up in all directions. I sit up and glance to the empty space beside me. Lionel was away yet again, following George W. Bush for a piece on the President's stewardship of the invasion. Oh, the invasion. That thing. How my conscience tutted. It had begun on the 20th March, and ended more or less two months later. British troops still remained in Iraq, and would continue to do so for quite some time. Operation Telic we had named it. It really wasn't the sort of thing I'd planned on doing when I first accepted the role of Defence Secretary. Yes, I had helped to plan it, initiate it, see it through. I'd gathered military leaders, weapons experts, and helped Alastair to compile a dossier justifying the invasion. Yet there was a part of me that regretted my involvement. I felt as though there were moments in which I could have fought a little harder.

  
I sigh and try to push thoughts of the invasion from my mind, instead turning to the phone on my bedside table, the source of that dreadful ringing sound I could still hear. I take up the receiver and mumble a sleepy 'hello' into it. "Good morning, Defence Secretary. Sorry to call you so early" Lord Goldsmith, our Attorney General, says, far too loudly for my liking, "I just wanted to check that you were ready for the session today". I find myself sighing yet again. Nightmares about our fight in Iraq could not have come at a more, to use the word loosely, opportune time.  
"I'm fine, Peter, honestly" I tell him, rubbing my eyes warily, "It has to be done". The sooner it was over and done with, the better. The press had become incredibly intrusive recently, sometimes gathering at the gates at the end of the drive. Some had tried to follow my advisers home in the hope of getting 'answers'. Certain members of the public weren't much better. It was perfectly clear to me that the invasion was not popular. Indeed, by supporting it I seemed to have alienated some even in my local Labour Party.

  
"Terrible business" Goldsmith muses, "Just terrible. It's a tragedy, him dying so soon after that committee meeting. I suppose that's why we're having this inquiry. To find out what happened". I gulp. The man Peter talked of was no British solider in Iraq, nor a solider of any other nation. He was an ordinary man of elder years, a weapons expert whom my department had valued for some time. Dr David Kelly.  
"You've nothing to fear" Goldsmith reassures me, though I don't feel any better, "I doubt they'll give you an easy ride, of course".  
"Yes, Peter, I'm afraid I'll have to start getting ready now. Good bye". I hang up and set the receiver back down. I take a moment to regain control of my nerves, before standing up and making my way towards the en suite. And as I stand beneath the hot torrents of the shower, my mind begins to race.

  
'Dr Kelly is dead!'. The voice of one of my junior ministers comes back to me. 'Dr Kelly is dead!' he had cried, storming into my office, eyes wide and face pale. It had been just one day since his appearance before the Intelligence and Security Select Committee. One day since one of the toughest grillings I had seen in recent years. Many within the government had been angered by Kelly, myself, at times, included. Earlier in the year, a BBC journalist by the name of Andrew Gilligan had revealed that he had spoken to someone within the Ministry of Defence, who had cast doubt on the dossier myself and others had worked to put together. After much arguing, Kelly, whose advice I myself had trusted many times in the past, revealed himself as Gillingham's source. I could still remember how I had questioned him about their meeting.

  
_"Dr Kelly, I must insist you tell me plainly" I had said, "Why did you think it wise to talk to a journalist of all people about these matters?". Dr Kelly, already sweating from nervousness, had reached up to loosen his tie and stuttered a response. "I was anxious to learn what had happened in Baghdad. Gillingan had just been there writing about the war" he had replied, "In turn, he wanted to hear about the dossier, especially given that we'd failed to find the weapons of mass destruction we'd tried to warn people about". I had studied him most coldly from behind my desk. The war was already unpopular at this point. We needed no further doubt to be cast on the government given the circumstances._

  
_"Did you speak to Gilligan on a personal capacity? Or did you speak to him as an employee of the Ministry?" I had asked, fixing him with an icy green stare. I had been somewhat riled at the time, and so had neglected to 'go easy' on the man. Upon reflection, it was an unfair interview. "I spoke to him on a purely unattributable basis" Kelly had explained, and I could see in his eyes that he was telling the truth, "I don't think I was his sole source. I'm sure he spoke to someone else"._

After that, I had thanked him and dismissed him, then left alone in my office to think on what I had heard.  
Poor David Kelly. His last weeks and months were taken up by grilling after grilling. From all sides he seemed to have garnered attention and anger. He had inadvertently caused a political crisis. Confessions of doubt over government information had led to the pressures he faced in his final days. And so, here I am. About to give evidence of my own. Dr Kelly's death, and the mystery that still surrounded it, had sparked an inquiry, and of course I had been pulled into it.

  
Many members of the public now doubted the possibility of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. They certainly didn't trust our dossier. Justification for the invasion I had helped to start was falling apart. I had expressed reservations, of course, as had a number of those who sat around the negotiating table with me. I could recall one particular meeting that took place in July last year.

  
_At the table with me had been Jack, Goldsmith, Alastair, Tony's Chief of Staff Jonathan Powell, the Chief of Defence Staff Michael Boyce and the head of the Secret Intelligence Service, Richard Dearlove. There, we had discussed the build-up to the war in Iraq, and the implications it might have. "Bush is very clear" Dearlove had spoken, "He wants Saddam Hussein gone, through military action. He wants it justified on grounds of terrorism, and of course the WMDs. Though intelligence on all of this is being fixed around Bush's policy. The facts are thin". Jack had nodded._

  
_"Bush has definitely made his mind up about military action" he had replied,  for it was most certainly true. He was the keenest advocate for action in Iraq, and had been since 9/11. "Richard is right" Jack had added, "The case is thin". American intelligence seemed to have been conjured up, its fabrication no doubt ordered by Bush himself. Such was his desire for the removal of Saddam._  
_"What of these weapons of mass destruction? I understand the UN is looking for them, but I suspect their existence is unlikely" I had asked, tapping my pen on the table anxiously, "How can we justify an invasion on the basis of something that is unlikely to be true?". At that point we had begun to stray into the perhaps dishonest realms many of our critics now accused us of living in. As I say, I had always expressed reservations, but privately. In public, I could only show full confidence in the dossier I had helped to create._

  
_"Even if Hussein doesn't have WMDs, he is still capable of doing so" Jack had argued, "Imagine the implactions should he develop them, and, Heaven forbid, start using them". At that point, Michael Boyce had chipped in._

  
_"He might target Kuwait or Israel" he had said, expression solemn, "Imagine the consequences". I had nodded. It seemed fairly simple. Even if Iraq did not possess weapons of such mighty destruction, they were at least capable of obtaining them. Imagine the chaos if such weapons had been used on innocent people. Imagine the anger people would feel at our lack of action. Even as early as July 2002, many at that table, myself included, had made their minds up about Iraq. Goldsmith, our legal expert at the meeting, had not been so sure._

  
_"Justifying this on legal grounds will be difficult" he had confessed._

_"We could always wait until the UN pass a resolution of some sort" I had responded, "No doubt we'll know more about all of this in future. We can make our case when we do"._

  
Many months had passed since then. Indeed, we did know more, and yes, we now had a resolution from the UN to back up our decision. Yet the questions kept on coming, and I suspected, with Dr Kelly's death, they would continue to come for quite some time.

  
As I climb out of the shower, pushing my wet red hair from my eyes and reaching for a towel, I glance in the mirror. I was thirty-one now. My face was very much still clear and young, but under my eyes sat purple bags, and my skin was much paler than usual. I was much thinner now, as well, as if I could be any thinner. My mother had said that I looked ill. Perhaps I was, but I knew the main reason for my increasingly gaunt appearance was my job, and the things I had done as a part of it. Did I mean to start a war when I first accepted the job of Defence Secretary from Tony just three years ago? Did I mean for that war to essentially lead to a man's suicide? Did I mean for that suicide to lead to a full-scale inquiry, under which myself and many others in government would be severely scrutinised? No. No, I certainly did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it this chapter is a little complicated !  
> I disagree with the Iraq War. Even if the information given at the time was true, which we more or less know it isn't, I disagree with it. I'm a bit of a pacifist, what can I say xD?  
> Seriously though, I understand there are still a number of questions to be asked about what happened in government at that time, and I'm not saying that certain figures lied on purpose about Iraq, I'm just presenting my interpretation.  
> I said at the beginning of this story that Elizabeth may not be someone you particularly like. This is essentially why.  
> I leave you all to make your own minds up about her involvement here.  
> Do you think she knew that the government's little dossier was false? Or do you think she was tricked like so many others?  
> Perhaps we'll discover that in future chapters...


	36. Mr and Mrs Campion.

**30th August, 2003.**

**Henley-Upon-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

The town hall was stiflingly hot. Even in the waning days of summer, the sun continued to beam down upon us as hard as could be. Every window possible had been opened, and my secretary had brought a fan into the hall to give me some air. I wore a pale, thin dress without arms that reached down to my knees, hoping that would allow me some feeling of freedom in the heat. In the end, I had resorted to fanning myself occasionally with my briefing papers.

Along the one side of the hall, plastic chairs had been lined up. On them sat a host of waiting constituents. Most had only minor queries. Issues regarding the local library, and the graffiti on walls, and the like. Others, whilst relatively insignificant in their troubles, were slightly more forceful, such as the young lady who presents herself before me now. I say 'young lady', and yet is suspect she is older than I. In her arms she holds a squirming toddler, and stood behind her are three bickering children. The woman looked most annoyed, and in fairness I could not blame her.

"Why is everything going up?" She says abruptly, before I even have a chance to greet her properly. I blink at her for a moment. "There have indeed been very small rises in prices" I concede, sensing an argument on the horizon, "I understand that it is somewhat-". The woman shakes her head.

"Not 'somewhat'. It's a pain" she interrupts, "I'm trying to bring four kids up on my own. Money is tight. How am I supposed to get by if things keep going up all the time?". Irritation laces her words. She wasn't by any means well-spoken, but I understood her meaning.

"I'm very sorry about that" I say calmly, "Have you a job?". The woman's eyebrows furrow sharply, and I get the impression I have asked the wrong question. "Of course I bloody work" the woman snaps, "What, just because I don't talk like The Queen I'm some kind of jobless layabout?". My secretary bites her lip anxiously. A few other waiting constituents were beginning to look over now. Wonderful. The last thing I wanted was a scene.

"You misunderstand me. If I've caused you some offence, I apologise, but it wasn't my intention" I try to reason, "I was only asking. May I ask in what line do you work?". The woman glares. I could tell I had not made a friend this particular day.

"I work on the till at the local Co-Op" she tells me, ignoring the fidgeting of the toddler in her arms, "I did work at the pub as well, but I had to give that up when my youngest was born". I try to find a way to defuse the situation. I feign a smile and look to the small child in the woman's arms. "Is this him?" I ask, "How old is he?". The woman's eyes soften ever so slightly as she looks to her child. Hopefully by diverting the conservation so, I would be able to distract her from her anger. "Yes" the woman tells me, "This is Harry. Three he is". I smile at little Harry, a reasonably cute creature. I see my opportunity.

"The same age as my youngest" I reply, smiling genuinely this time as I think on my little girl, Emily, who had been born to me back in 2000, "You're a lovely lad, Harry". With the situation calmed, I try to gently return to the issue raised by the lady in the first place. "Madam, I'm terribly sorry to hear of your predicament, but I'm afraid rising food prices are the consequence of a falling Pound, over which I have no control" I tell her plainly, "There is little else I can say on this". The woman's eyes flare up again, but she doesn't shout. She simply gets to her feet, and, admittedly through gritted teeth, bids me a 'thank you, Ms Nelson', before stalking away with her brood in tow, muttering something about me being a 'toffee-nosed cow'. A charming woman until the end. As I take a moment to organise my notes before the next constituent comes, my secretary shakes her head.

"How do you do that?" She asks.

"Do what?" I reply, paying little attention as I attempt to get my uncharacteristically crumpled notes into an orderly pile before me. My secretary studies me most curiously, leisurely chewing on the end of her pen as she does so. "You didn't really help her, did you? Her problem is in no way solved" she comments, "And yet you managed to make her leave here without any further argument. She could have stayed for a fight, but you some how managed to defuse the situation. I find it interesting".

"Then you are too easily interested" I frown. My secretary only goes on.

"There's a cunningness to it" Mary adds, "I've seen you do it before. You remind me of Peter Mandelson sometimes". She giggles lightly to herself, but I shoot her a dismissive look. "You're paid to help me" I snap, "Not pass petty comments". Mary's face drops, and with a hurt expression she looks down. There is a moment of silence as I calm myself down.

"I am sorry" I sigh, "It's the heat. It's making me somewhat irate". Mary nods, smiling faintly, and beckons over the next constituents. These two come as a pair, a husband and wife I suspect. They take their seats before me.

"Good morning" I greet them, shaking their hands in turn, "Might I ask your names?". The man before me squeezes his wife's hand. I can tell she is nervous, but for what reason I don't know. "Richard. Richard Campion" the man tells me, "This is my wife, Julie". I smile at them.

"A pleasure to meet you" I say, "How might I help you both?". Again, Mr Campion squeezes his wife's hand. Was this a delicate matter? I feared it might be.

"It's our son, William. He's in the army you see. He joined a few years ago, as soon as he was able to. Good lad he is" Mr Campion explains, "Only the other month he was sent away, to Iraq". I freeze for moment. I can feel Mary's eyes on me. How I wished I could be rid of that woman today. I hope my face does not betray my inner feeling. Any mention of Iraq around me was never a positive one. Whenever anyone, whether it be a constituent or a journalist, approached me over the invasion, they very rarely had anything welcoming to say.

"For the first few weeks, we got letters from him. Brief, but it was something, you know?" Mr Campion says, "Only the other week, they stopped coming. Julie worries easily about these things, so we enquired about William. Except the Ministry won't tell us anything". I usually didn't have a great time for lengthy explanations such as this. I preferred it when constituents kept their queries brief, especially when the line of those waiting was long. Yet, in this case, I felt utterly obliged to listen to every word. "We just want to know if our boy is safe, Ms Nelson" Julie pipes up, her hands trembling slightly. I find myself hit by a sudden wave of sadness.

"Of course. I absolutely understand your position, but I fear I may not be as much help to you as you hope" I reply. Mr and Mrs Campion exchange a saddened look and now their heads. My conscience gives me a kick. These people weren't mouthy mothers angry over their shopping bills. They were polite folk worried about their son. They didn't deserve another of my non-answers.

"Though" I go on, and with hope the two Campions look up, "I shall make enquiries at the Ministry. Send your son's details to my secretary and I'll see what I can do. I'm sure your William is in fact safe, but if something has...gone awry, I'll try to let you know". Mr Campion smiles at me kindly.

"Thank you" he says, offering me his hand, "We're grateful". He bids me goodbye, before taking his wife's hand and helping her to her feet. But before they leave, Julie reaches out to me. "I know you don't really want this" she says to me in a hushed voice, "I'm sorry you've been coaxed into it all. I really am". Before I have a chance to respond, she gives my hand a quick squeeze before moving back towards her husband and walking from the hall with him. I watch them go, eyes narrowed. They seemed nice enough, though Julie Campion was perhaps a bit odd. Perhaps it was just down to her nerves. I couldn't blame her for being so worried. I often went into a state of frenzy if my own son was late from school by a matter of minutes.

"What did she say to you?" Mary asks curiously. I know you don't really want this. I'm sorry you've been coaxed into it all. My conscience gives a hearty nod, dismissed by my head. "Oh" I say, clearing my throat, "Nothing really".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make the war a turning point for Elizabeth. It's a defining moment, I think, in her story, and I think it's interesting to just see how it effects her.
> 
> Also, remember this encounter !! Mr and Mrs Campion will appear again! Why? You will just have to see


	37. The Evil of Mathematics.

**1st September, 2003.**

**Henley-Upon-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I spent most of my weekends in Oxford, usually for constituency work, but often also to spend time with my family. Being a fairly large but close-knit family, we would arrange family gatherings at my parent's home, and go walking through the estate together before having a picnic. They were but small memories, but important ones all the same, especially with the furore of war blazing in the background.

It was late afternoon on a Friday. The sun had lost its intensity, but burned on all the same. I had been back in Oxfordshire for abour an hour or so by now, and had retreated to the comfort of one of my airier dresses. On the kitchen table were my red boxes, filled with papers I would glance at on Monday. For now, my thoughts were with my family and my home. Government was a hectic place at the moment. I was allowed a moment to relax, surely?

"Shall I put something in the oven for you, dear?" Dorothy, my beloved house keeper, suggests as I sink down into a seat, "I'd imagine you're famished". I place a hand on my particularly flat stomach. "In all honesty I'm not very hungry" I tell her, "Could you put something in for Lionel and the children, though? Alex is due to arrive from from school in a moment". Dorothy nods and moves away into the pantry. I begin to nod off where I sit, until I hear a small voice call from the other side of the house.

A few moments later, a small boy with short red curls dashes into the kitchen, his otherwise smart uniform slightly crumpled. "Mother!" He cries, rushing over to me and leaping on to me. He was growing quickly, and, whilst a healthy weight, was no longer as light as a feather. My own lack of weight didn't make the impact any easier, of course. "Why didn't you come home yesterday?" Alex asks. I sigh and brush one of his delightful little curls from his dark eyes. "I was held up in London. You know how busy I can be sometimes" I tell him. Alex simply smiles at me, as sweetly as ever. He was eight years old now, and as lovely a boy as could be. I did, however, fear that I didn't spend enough time with him. So often my job kept me away.

Alex turns his head slightly, and it's then that I catch sight of a long, red scratch across his left cheek. It was fresh, and looked quite sore. "What happened here?" I ask, inspecting it further. Alex shrugs and tries to leave. I call him back as he reaches the kitchen door. "Alex?" I ask, voice sterner this time, "Is there something you're not telling me?". Alex looks to his feet for a moment before coming clean.

"It was Tom's fault!" He blurts, in a manner typical for his age, "He made fun of me for getting my sums wrong in maths. I told him to go away, so he scratched me". I knew 'Tom' to be the son of a local stockbroker, a pugnacious child with an eye for the mild-mannered.

"Did you hurt him back?" I query. Alex shakes his head. I smile at him softly and peck him on the forehead. "I'm glad" I tell him, "You're not struggling with your maths too much, are you?". Alex bows his head again, but rather than look guilty he looks mildly annoyed with himself. "It's too hard" he admits. I furrow my eyebrows and beckon him over to sit with me at the table.

"What is?" I ask. I knew mathematics was not the most enjoyable subject for most. I, myself, had always rather enjoyed it. My interest in the subject had allowed me to excel at it.

"All of it" Alex states, "I don't understand it very well at all". I could tell this was bothering him. I was curious as to why he hadn't confided in me before about this. Again, I begin to fear that I'm not paying him sufficient attention. Had he tried to talk to me about this before? Had I been ignoring him?

Just then, Lionel emerges from another room. I take this opportunity to ask him about our son's troubles. "Alex says he has been struggling with maths at school" I say, "Did you know about this?". At first Lionel looks entirely distracted, but eventually he looks up and answers me. "Oh, right" he says, but even now I sense his mind is somewhere else, "One of his tutors approached me about it the other day. He said having problems in lessons. I must have forgotten to mention it". I sigh. It was typical of him to forget such a thing. He was becoming rather complacent of late. Sometimes he didn't really seem to care about anything. What was wrong with him, I did not know.

"Clearly" I retort, "Do you think we should arrange a meeting at the school? Sit down with his teachers and see what exactly is going on". Whilst we talk, Alex retreats into the pantry to help Dorothy with her business. "The poor boy is probably just being distracted by someone" Lionel responds, moving over to the fridge to retrieve something to eat, "I'm sure it's nothing to fret over". I furrow my eyernbrows at that. Any issue regarding my son's schoolwork was one worthy of fretting, in my opinion, especially when it was resulting in fellow students picking on him.

"Did you notice the scratch on Alex's face?" I ask, as Lionel rummages around in the fridge, "Another pupil did that". Lionel sighs, only serving to anger me further. "Boys his age are often rough with one another" he tells me, "You must calm yourself". I scoff.

"Lionel, he was being picked on because he struggles with his work" I point out, "Don't tell me you're not worried about that?". Lionel turns around and blinks at me. I roll my eyes and look in another direction. "You worry too much" he says, walking over to me bearing a sandwich in hand. He plants a kiss upon my head before walking away. "And you don't worry enough" I tell him.

"Dorothy is making dinner soon" I add, curious as to why he feels the need for a sandwich at this time in the day. "This will do, thank you" Lionel answers, leaving the kitchen, "I'll eat in my study. I have work to do". I sigh. What a miserable specimen he could be. Was I worrying too much? I could no longer tell. My thoughts are interrupted by the emergence of another figure into the kitchen. This time it is my younger sister, Helena, now a journalist in her own right, bearing little Emily in her arms.

"What has Lionel so rattled?" She asks, "He walked past without even a glance at little Emily here". The toddler glances about the room with her bright blue eyes. They were very much like Lionel's, as was her hair. It was still very thin, but grew straight and dark. She certainly resembled her father much more than Alex did.

"I've no idea" I sigh, "There is a thorn in his side and I don't seem to be able to remove it".

"I think perhaps the last time I saw him smile was at that family gathering we had the other week, and that was only because Eva made another pathetic attempt to flirt with him" Helena ponders. I'm tempted to remind my sister that she, particularly in her younger years, is a notorious flirt herself, but instead I see common ground. Neither of us liked Eva.

Our brother had married her as planned, and their child, a girl, had been born a few months afterwards. Eva did not work, instead spending her hours doting over her child like she was an antique, pampering her and spending ludicrous amounts of money on clothing her. Nevin looked exhausted whenever I saw him.

"I can't help but be wary of her" Helena goes on, "She tried it on with Nevin and succeeded. Who knows what she'll try next?". I sigh, agreeing with my sister but quietly. I decide to simply let her ramble on to herself. She talks of her doubt over whether the child was even Nevin's in the first place. "She's somewhat a harlot, do you not think?" She says, "Certainly not the sort people like ourselves get involved with". I found that particular comment to be disingenuous, seeing as the upper-middle classes were just as prone to scandal and sleaze as any. "I've an inkling she had it away with another, no doubt one who is entirely inappropriate to marry, and then sought to wed Nevin once she found herself to be pregnant. For stability" Helena explains in her usual gossipy manner, "Dreadful, do you not think? To use a man like that?".

I look up as Dorothy reappears from the depths of the pantry bearing various foods, with Alex in tow, holding a variety of different vegetables in his young arms. I watch him absentmindedly and smile fondly. Those dark eyes of his seemed to sparkle even as he began to help Dorothy with her cooking. "Yes" I say distractedly, mindful of upsetting Helena by ignoring her, "Simply dreadful".


	38. Pressing Matters.

  
**16th November, 2003.**   
**The Ministry of Defence, London.**   


  
It had been some months since Mr and Mrs Campion had set foot in my constituency surgery on a hot August morning. I had seen them since, having to bear them the disappointing news that I still had nothing to report on their son, who had not contacted them for some time. British troops remained in Iraq, and the invasion was still fresh on the minds of many. My involvement continued to press on my mind. All of my closest colleagues had joined me in voting for the invasion, but to say I had gone through this episode without losing any friends was a lie. A number of Liberal Democrats whom I had been on good terms with no longer talked to me. Charles still remained a contact of mine, but our friendship was undoubtedly strained.

 

As I sit at my desk in the Ministry, I glance over a column he had written in The Telegraph, titled "Why Britain must leave Iraq". George Bush was due to visit the UK in a couple of days time. I suspected he might among those planning on protesting against him. I sigh and turn the page of the newspaper, only to be confronted by further unwelcome articles. I find myself looking at a picture of myself, mid stride leaving the Commons with my junior ministers in tow. "At thirty-one, Defence Secretary Elizabeth Nelson is still stunning. No wonder Mr Blair is keen to keep her around!". I scoff. It only gest worse. "Wearing an elegant below-knee crimson dress, our resident lady in red shows her increasingly frail-looking frame. It appears the Ministry of Defence is without a kitchen". I couldn't say I was surprised, in all honesty. I was more or less used to comments such as these, but they no less annoyed me. Heaven forbid the tabloids might report on what I was saying for once. A soft knock on my office door distracts me momentarily from my irritation.

 

"Come in" I call, and shortly in marches a young civil servant bearing a thin brown file held together with even thinner string. He passes it over my desk to me. "The information you requested, Defence Secretary" he says, standing as though I were an army general. I glance over the file for a moment, before looking to the young man.

 

"Thank you" I reply, "Oh, and it's best if you don't make it known that I have this. It's for a private matter, you see". The civil servant nods to me, before making for the door. Just before he leaves I add "And as you pass my private secretary, could you remind him to schedule an appointment for a Mr Andy Burnham, the new Member for Leigh. He wanted to speak to me for a constituent". The door shuts, and the young man is gone. I smile to myself for a moment. The Member for Leigh. I could still remember the look of pure excitement and joy on Andy's face when he first arrived at Parliament after winning his seat in 2001. His victory was very much deserved, in my opinion, and already I had heard him give some rather fantastic speeches. I was tempted to speak with Tony and convince him to give Andy a job in government. These things could wait for another time, of course, as my business lay with the file in my hand.

 

I pulled back the string and opened the file, almost gingerly. I felt as though I was gazing on secret documents I had no right to. I was the Defence Secretary, I reminded myself, there wasn't a piece of paper in this building I wasn't entitled to in some way or another. The particular document I held in my hands now contained the names of those currently missing in action. It was standard procedure for family's of soliders missing in action to receive word from the military, however on some occasions word does not come through. Ministries such as mine practically creaked under the pressure of so much paperwork.

 

Most of the initial papers within the file covered legal bases. Then, in the middle, I find a piece of A3 with only a few lines of writing on it. I trace my finger down the list, until I find it. William Campion. Alongside the names of most on the list was the letter 'M' stamped in red ink. Beside young William's name were two letters. 'M/D'. Even someone outside of the Minstry of Defence could tell what those particular letters meant. Missing/Dead. There was a possibility the Campion's son was dead. For a moment I freeze in my seat, heart sinking as I imagine the polite and mild-tempered Mr Campion and his shy but pleasant wife Julie. I could imagine their pain, their tears. Did I really want to do this? It all begins to hit me. Their boy could be dead. Was it for me to tell me? Could I? Should I? It wouldn't be proper, surely? I was the Secretary of State for Defence; I couldn't prance about the country telling the family's of every poor soul on the list that their children were missing. But I told them I would help. I told them I would find out what I could. I had done just that. Could I now face them both and tell them what I knew?

 

My thoughts are interrupted by another knock on the door. I stuff the paper back into the file and clear my throat. "Come in" I call, straightening myself up at my desk. My private secretary pokes his head around the door. "It's the Prime Minister, Defence Secretary" he says. I nod to him, and a few moments later, Tony strides into my office. I invite him to take the seat on the other side of the desk. "What can I do for you?" I ask. Tony sighs. He was looking somewhat wary of late. His hair was speckled with grey, and the wrinkles on his forehead deepen. "I need you to try to talk to Gordon" he tells me plainly. I fight back a sigh of my own. It was easy to forget about the other war I had found myself in the middle of. "And for a moment I thought you had come here to ask me about my job" I retort, to which Tony only blinks, "What bother are the two of you squabbling over this time?". Tony tuts at that description.

 

"There was a fight the other day between a No. 10 press officer and a No. 11 press office. Alastair was on hand to separate the two, but others around them began shouting at one another" Tony tells me solemnly, "Our staff are literally fighting one another". I can't help but roll my eyes.

 

"And why exactly do you want me to speak to Gordon?" I ask, "I'm not acting a messenger between the two of you. If you had problems to sort out, sort them out together". I can tell Tony doesn't like the idea, but I can also tell he will at least consider it. Sometimes I was difficult for he and Gordon to be even in the same room together. Often at Cabinet meetings, Gordon would storm off the minute the meeting ended, desperate to leave Tony's presence before an argument began.

 

"I don't think Gordon would want to meet me one to one" Tony says, "Christ, where did it all go wrong?". He sighs heavily and rests his head in his hands. It was strange to think the two of them had once been friends. I didn't like to dwell on the breakdown in their relationship, because I found it made me sad. It was a brutal thing to witness. "This is something I may be willing to talk to Gordon about" I tell him, looking upon Tony sympathetically, "If it makes government that bit easier, I'll do what I can to get you two to talk to one another". Tony looks up and smiles to me appreciatively. It is then he notices the file laid out before me. There is recognition in his eyes.

 

"Why do you have that?" he asks, nodding to it. I was unsure of how or why Tony had seen the file before. It was Ministry document, not a Downing Street document. "I'm the Secretary of State for this department. It's required reading" I lie, "How is it you know it?". Tony clears his throat.

 

"I was just glancing over it to see, well, to see how many-" he explains, voice trailing off, "Well anyway, so long as you aren't using for personal business. No doubt you have constituents who want to know more about what our troops are doing". I nod. I would have to disappoint the Campions, wouldn't I? I should have known that my research would not be permitted. I try to think up an explantion for the Campions in my mind as Tony rises to his feet. "I shan't bother you further" he says, "I've work to be getting on with, anyway. You're welcome to join Cherie and I for dinner tomorrow, if you'd like. So that we can catch up". I smile and nod.

 

"That sounds lovely" I reply, "Thank you, Tony". That was one of many invitations Tony had given me in the past few weeks. It had been going on for years now. I didn't doubt that the friendship between myself and Tony was genuine, but I got the impression that Tony's primary reason for inviting me to tea so often was to keep me away from Gordon. Both camps seemed determined to win me over to their side. I was having none of-  
"Ow" I exclaim inadvertently, clutching my chest as I feel a sharp stabbing pain their. Tony turns on his heel and looks to me with a concerned expression. "Liz?" he asks, "Are you quite alright?". I gulp and move my hand back down to my side. The pain was gone, disappearing every bit as quickly as it had appeared, and I was left confused. "Yes, yes" I tell him, "I'm fine. I'll speak to you later, Tony". Tony nods, unconvinced but he doesn't argue. And with that he leaves my office. I sink back down into my seat and take a deep breath. The Campions. The invasion. Gordon and Tony's everlasting feud. The bizarre pain in my chest. So many things to worry about, and that was without the pressures at home, with concerns over my father's heart problems, Alex's education and Lionel's perpetual bad moods.

 

I wondered whether I would still be as conflicted and tired in a years time. Would I still be in my current job in a years time? I hoped the stresses of war and government would be gone by that time. If they didn't, the Elizabeth Nelson of the future would be even more broken that the Elizabeth Nelson of the present day.


	39. Casual Conversations in the Aye Lobby.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year later, as Elizabeth finds herself in an increasingly frail position, a friendly face from the past reappears.

**12th October, 2004.**

**House of Commons, London.**

I am still sat at my desk in Ministry of Defence. No, I have not been sitting here since November 2003, but I was still in my job. It seemed as though the furore of invasion was behind us, and so life in government had calmed considerably. For those of us who had been heavily involved in the events in Iraq, it continues to hang over our heads like a permanent storm cloud. I'd begun to smoke again and for several months I had been on anti-depressants. I was not a miserable wreck of a person, but I was in no way the same.

And so here I am, head on my desk, eyes shut as I roll around in my own thoughts. The memory that appears to haunt me most is that of a tearful Mr Richard Campion, bravely composing himself as his wife Julie sobs heavily into a handkerchief. Past them, a coffin is carried. I didn't intend to stumble on that particular sight. I wish I hadn't. I had been leaving my constituency office one day, walking by the local Church, and simply freezing when I caught sight of the Campions. They had found out about their son's disappearance, and soon afterwards death, in Iraq early in January. Weeks after I had first learn that their boy was indeed missing. I often wondered whether I was wrong to have kept what I knew from them, given that I had promised them I would help. No doubt I would pay for that particular sin in another life.

Ah, sin. As well as my smoking habits, I had also returned to attending Church. I didn't feel I really believed in Catholicism any more, but it made me feel I always had somewhere peaceful to go, no matter what was going on in my life. Whenever I found myself brooding on gloomy thoughts about government, I would go to confession. It was therapeutic, to share one's troubles with another. The only other people I confided in these days were Gordon and Charles, who had come to pity me rather than dislike me for my involvement in the invasion.

"Secretary of State?" My private secretary, Bernard, asks, and I can feel him looking down on me with curious eyes, "Are you asleep?". I sigh and pull myself up, resting my head now against the back of my chair. Bernard glances over to the empty tumbler on my desk. "Are you drunk?" He asks. I roll my eyes at him and get to my feet. "I'm tired, Bernard" I tell him. He shoots me a sympathetic look. "How has your chest been?" He asks me, eyes following me about the room as I try to find something to distract myself with, "Have you spoken to a doctor?". As I had deteriorated, Bernard had become somewhat of a carer. Not only did he aid me with Ministry business, he helped me to remember to take my medication and the like. Civil servants were often painted a slimy, scheming folk concerned only with their own careers. Bernard, thankfully, did not fit that mould.

"I have an appointment next week" I tell him, walking over the window and glancing out onto Whitehall, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about too much". My father, and his father, had a long history of heart problems. It was only right that I have myself checked out. For a long time I had simply ignored the feelings in my chest, but gradually they've worsened, and are now accompanied by spells of dizziness. I suspected my fatigue may be a symptom of something wrong, too.

"You'll be attending the vote this evening, won't you?" Bernard asks, scribbling something away on the clipboard he often carried with him. I reach for a decanter nearby and pour myself a fresh glass of whisky. "Vote?" I ask, brows furrowed. Bernard blinks at me. "On the Civil Parternships Bill?" He reminds me. I could have kicked myself. It was typical that I should forget about a Bill I myself had pushed for. The moment it had first been brought up in Cabinet, I had pledged my support. Personally, I felt as though it would be right of us to allow gay men and women to marry properly, but, as had been pointed out, reform as great as this had to be introduced gradually. Civil Partnerships. What a wonderful thing that would be. It was the first time I had ever seen my brother Ian smile at something my government had done. That provided me with some light.

* * *

 The Aye Lobby in the House of Commons was teaming. The vote on something, MPs trailed through either the Aye or No lobby, being counted as they did so. I traipse along, surrounded my colleagues idly talking about this and that. Beside me Andy talked animatedly about his children, and I tried to listen and smile. My own children were often the primary source of happiness in my life. Emily was growing more and more by the day, and, after I had hired a private tutor for him, Alex's marks at school had improved a great deal. It was a shame Lionel didn't share that happiness. Now the Editor of the FT, he spent most of his time in London. Doing what, I had no idea. Just then, a voice calls out to me. I recognise it, but just about. It is a voice I haven't heard in a great many years.

"Seeing you face-to-face again after so many years" George Osborne says, "How strange. Not that I'm complaining, of course". I find myself slightly winded by his sudden appearance, especially after so many years. He begins to walk alongside me, and so I smile at him. I find I don't have to feign it. I was pleasantly surprised to come across him. I had been known that he was now an MP, gaining his seat at the last election. Earlier in the year he had been promoted to Shadow Cabinet by Michael Howard. At 33 years old, he was doing very well indeed. Most didn't reach the front bench until the age of about 40. I had been in my 20s when John Smith had first promoted me, but that was another matter.

"Goodness" I say, "You managed it in the end, then? I trust you've been well". George nods and gives me one of those old grins of his. "Very much so" he replies, "I'm the youngest in the parliamentary party, you know". I arch an eyebrow at him.

"I was running an entire department by the time you were elected" I tell him with a smirk. George shrugs.

"You always were the most mature of us both" he reasons, "Give me a few months. I might catch up with you". I laugh at that and jerk my head. He had always been very clever, and certainly had ambition. I was glad that he had been able to finally make those ambitions a reality. "You're married now, aren't you?" George asks, for we did indeed have a great deal of catching up to do. It would feel strange to see George and then ignore him. We had parted so long ago on reasonable amicable terms. I had no quarrel with him; I had to be fair.

"Yes. For nine years, if you can believe it" I say, tempted to tell him of the difficulties between myself and Lionel at the present moment, "I also have two children now. A nine year old and a four year old. What about you?". George smiles fondly to himself. I noticed a wedding ring on his finger. It made me happy to know that, not only had he been able to realise his potential in politics, he had been able to move on and find someone better than myself.

"I have a girl and a boy. Luke and Liberty" George tells me politely, "I married in 1998, to a woman named Frances. She's a writer".

"My husband is a writer of sorts. He edits the Financial Times" I respond. George looks almost impressed. "You have done rather well for yourself" he comments, "We should meet for tea one day. It would be nice to catch up, do you not think?". I nod and smile at him kindly.

"Absolutely" I reply, and I mean it. George was a grown man by now, yet his grin still had that same old boyish quality. His hair had kept its thickness, but was no longer as curly at it had once been. Apart from that, he was very much he same. I really was glad to see him. I began to wonder why we hadn't spoken to one another sooner.

"Are you alright?" George asks me suddenly, eyebrows furrowing, "You look pained". This time I do feign a smile. I suppose I had been beginning to stare off into space again. Such were my thoughts. Even at lighter moments such as this, they distracted me. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you" I reply, "I'm just rather tired, I suppose. Hard work and all of that. I wouldn't expect a Tory such as yourself to understand". I wink at him, and he grins.

"I'm glad your sarcasm hadn't dulled with age" George says. As we go to leave the lobby, having been counted, I lean to him and speak again.

"I'm glad of that too".


	40. A Glint in his Eye.

**31st October, 2004.**

**11 Downing Street, London.**

You'd quite expect any young child to be thrilled by the arrival of Hallowe'en. Not my child, it seemed, for before me sat young Alex, cross-legged on the floor with his nose dipped deep into a book Gordon had passed to him some minutes earlier. He had received invitations from peers at school for parties, but they had all been turned down. Today was not just Hallowe'en, but Sarah Brown's birthday. Alex was as fond of the Browns as I was, even acting as a protective brother of sorts over their young baby, John.

"I'm sorry your present is slightly battered" I say, embracing a very radiant Sarah, "Lionel decided to leave it on the back seat of his car before heading out this morning, so I'm afraid it's seen some air time". Sarah holds the gift I had given her fondly and smiles at me. "Men" she tuts. I raise an eyebrow and give her an understanding look. Men indeed.

"He's very bookish, isn't he?" Sarah comments, her eyes drifting to where Alex sat in the living room, "You'd expect a boy of his age to be interested in computers or football". I can't help but smile. I had never tried to force Alex into any particular hobby or past time. I had been taken to ballet lessons regularly as a child, but Alex expressed little interest in the arts. Instead, he had turned to books. He had never struggled to read as he had struggled with mathematics.

"He's a very bright boy" I say proudly. Just then, Gordon emerges from a doorway nearby, leaning down slightly as he clutches the comparatively tiny hand of my youngest, Emily. "Where did you two get off to?" I ask. Gordon beams for the first time in a number of days.

"I was showing Emily the portraits along the staircase" he replies. I chuckle.

"Did she hiss when she saw Margaret Thatcher?" I quip. Gordon leads Emily, who totters along most content beside him, into the room and takes a seat on the couch. "No" he says, "But I did". The sound of a telephone sounds out in the adjacent room. Sarah sighs. "That will be my mother" she says, "She always insists on singing me a happy birthday at this time. Excuse me". She hurries off to answer the phone, and so I walk over to join Gordon on the couch. He sits and watches Emily, who is beginning to fall asleep on his knee. Gordon really was a soft creature deep down. I thought it a great shame that so few were given the opportunity to see the kinder side of him.

"Just like her father" I comment, brushing a short lock of dark hair from my sleeping daughter's eyes, "She'll nod off anywhere". Gordon smiles, being careful not to move too sharply for fear of waking her. "Speaking of her father" Gordon says, and already I roll my eyes, "Is he still in a bad mood?". I emit a heavy sigh. It was perhaps odd for Gordon to question about the stormy moods of another, when he himself was the king of them. Then again, I at least understood why Gordon was often so grumpy. "I don't know what is wrong with him" I admit, "Still, let's keep the mood light, shall we? It's Sarah's birthday, after all". Gordon nods understandingly and rightly changes the subject.

"One of my aides overheard a very interesting conversation in one of the back rooms next door earlier" Gordon says, "There's talk of another general election next year". I raise an eyebrow. It had been just three years since the last one. I didn't fear for my own seat, nor my party's position in government, but I did fear we would fail to maintain the kind of majority we currently had. We weren't the most popular people in the country at the moment. We were still preferable to the Conservatives, of course, who seemed to be leading themselves into a corner with Michael Howard.

"You seem excited by the prospect" I observe, noting the glint in Gordon's eye. He doesn't smile, but I can tell there is nothing but glee on his tongue. "You've heard Tony as well as I have" Gordon reminds me, "He won't stay for a full third term".

"So you're hoping that he calls a general election sooner rather than later so that he can leave office and pave the way for you?" I ask. Gordon blinks at me.

"You make it all sound terribly shallow" he comments. I arch an eyebrow at him. It was plain as day that he had his eye on the leadership. I often wondered how he had lasted all of these years as Chancellor. The frustration must be unbearable.

"Are you going to be Prime Minister?" Alex asks, looking up from his book and shuffling closer to us, "I thought Tony was". Alex was a familiar face to Downing Street. It was not fitting for me to bring him to work, though I had taken him to the Ministry of Defence once or twice, but I often brought him along whenever I visited on a personal capacity. "Tony won't be Prime Minister forever" I explain, "Of course, Gordon is happy for Tony to stay on forever, but he won't". Gordon stares at me with narrowed eyes, whilst I fight back a chuckle. "Tony's wife scares me" Alex tells us plainly. We both emit a laugh, waking little Emily from her slumber. "That I can sympathise with" I remark.

"Can I show Emily my book?" Alex asks kindly, looking to his little sister. I pick Emily up gently and set her down on the carpet. Alex takes up his book and sits beside her. "Pictures?" Emily stutters. Alex shakes his head, his bronze curls bouncing as he did so. "No pictures" he says, "I can read you some of it, if you like. There are fairies in it". Emily's light blue eyes light up and with genuine interest she watches her brother as he reads to her. Whilst the children are distracted, I turn to Gordon. "You won't obsess over this leadership issue, will you? Well, more than you already do?" I ask. Gordon sighs.

"You know how long I've been after this" he tells me, and I have every sympathy. I imagined it wasn't easy to play second fiddle to a man who you thought was inferior to you. Whilst I tried very much to remain between he and Tony, I wouldn't be at all displeased if Gordon were to take over one day. "I know it's difficult for you" I say, "But there is a perception out there that you are obssessed with Tony's job. You need to stay patient for just a little while longer". Gordon looks to me with searching eyes.

"How long is 'a little while' exactly?" He asks. I blink at him, and try to cast my mind into the future. Would it be two years? Three? Four? I had no answer for Gordon, and I wished it wasn't so. "Soon" is all I can say, brain kicking into gear as I try to work out a logical time for Tony to leave should an election be called next year, "Soon".


	41. Canadians and Tories.

**2nd November, 2004.**

**Westminster, England.**

"You've annoyed the Canadians". Those were the words I was greeted with as I arrived at the Ministry that morning. Bernard stands before my desk most patiently, hands behind his back. I couldn't say I was particularly bothered by the idea of annoying the Canadians. I could just about see how I may have done so.

Some weeks ago, a Canadian ship, the HMCS Chicoutimi caught on fire. It was a technical mishap, leading to the rescue of its crew by Royal Navy frigates. The incident had claimed one life, a Chris Saunders. "The Canadian media blame Britain for the ship's failure" Bernard reminds me. I sigh. "Why? Because we supplied the ship?" I question, eyes now focusing on the briefing notes before me, " _The buyer must beware_ ". It was that which had caused such controversy. Apparently my response to the incident was inadequate. Of course, any loss of life was a great shame, and I had offered my condolences, but I saw the events that plagued the HMCS Chicoutimi not of my doing.

"Many veterans in Canada are offended" Bernard goes on, and with tired eyes I look up to him. "I hope you have more interesting things to talk to me about than the opinions of old soldiers across the pond" I state plainly. Bernard bows his head understandingly and draws up a chair. "We could discuss the annual policy review" he suggests, "Or your next meeting with Soames". Soames was my current opposite number in the Commons. As a relative of Churchill he was strong and sometimes pugnacious. We contrasted very much in character, making it easier for me to outmanoeuvre him at the dispatch box.

"I wasn't aware I was due to have another meeting with him" I say, eyebrows furrowing slightly as I look over to Bernard from across my desk, "Not of a face-to-face nature, anyway". Bernard blinks at me in the usual Private Secretary way.

"I scheduled it last week" he tells me, and I wait silently for my memory to kick in, "I did tell you". I sigh and get to my feet, sights set on the recently-filled decanter on the table in the corner of my office. I pour myself a drink and sigh again. "Where is the Forces Minister?" I ask him, changing the subject entirely, "He has a report of some sort to show me". Bernard instantly has the answer. I was always struck by their alertness. They really were the brains behind government.

"In his parliamentary office, sifting through constituency business I hear" Bernard says, already looking wary, "You're not planning on going there yourself, are you?". I finish my drink and look to him, puzzled.

"Am I supposed to sit here and wait for him? I've no issue in fetching these things myself" I state, "The Ministry doesn't fall to pieces the moment I leave". If it was to fall to pieces, it would do so with me in the building. Bernard gets to his feet as I make for the door. "Are you planning on walking to Parliament? Alone?" He asks. I shoot him a sarcastically sweet smile. "Are you offering to accompany me?" I quip, "No one can accuse you of not being a gentleman". Bernard blushes slightly and pursues me as I exit my office. I would return in about ten minutes or so. Rather like fetching a pint of milk in the morning, I had to stroll over to Parliament, which lay a matter of metres away, to retrieve a report from one of my ministers. Well, perhaps not quite like fetching a pint of milk.

"Call for your car, at least" Bernard insists, and to that I am tempted, mainly due to the weather. Bernard had other more important worries of course. "You don't know who may be walking about" he goes on, "There may be one of those Fathers for Justice men lurking around". Earlier in the year, a member of said group had thrown purple powder at Tony as he took Prime Minister's. The only danger I could see in purple powder was the danger to my hair and clothes. It wasn't the most fearful weapon available, though it was perhaps wise to not be too complacent about the threats out there.

"Fine" I concede, "I'll have my car called, but if the sun breaks out again, I'll insist on walking".

* * *

 I'd quite forgotten the atmosphere that surrounded the many offices of Parliament. Usually, by chance rather than planning, MPs of the same party were lumped together in the same areas of the building. In some, however, MPs of opposing parties were forced to neighbour one another. This often created tension, particularly when a vote of great importance was approaching. I was grateful to find myself at the scene during a quiet period. "Good morning, Ms Nelson" one MP greets. I mutter under my breath when I notice Boris Johnson approaching. "Greetings, Elizabeth" he says, ruffling his already messy blonde locks in the usual fashion, "And what tomfoolery brings you to this dark chasm?". I look him up and down with dismissal in my eye.

"I'm on Ministry business" I inform him, "I'm certainly not spying, if that's what you fear". Boris mumbles away for a few minutes about nothing in particular, before giving me an awkward slap on the arm and tottering away. I roll my eyes as I continue my walk along the corridor. I feel a twitch in my chest as I do, followed by a slightly hollow feeling. I wondered whether everyone felt quite so nauseous after encountering Boris Johnson.

I had gone to see a doctor, as arranged, some weeks ago, and had been told that I did in fact suffer from 'dilated cardiomyopathy', a chronic condition of the heart that had probably been passed on to me by my father, who had a history of heart problems. It was a non-threatening condition, and one that would pose no great threat to me, but, with the added stress of my job and my lack of sleep, could cause me to become very faint on some occasions. This was one such occasion.

 _Come on, you're nearly there_. I slow my pace and try to take deep breaths. My vision blurred slightly now, and I could feel myself tilting. I couldn't see anyone around, and was grateful, really. I didn't need any member of the opposition knowing that was 'unstable'.

I raise a hand to my chest as if trying to feel for the pain. It's then that I feel myself begin to fall. Before I can hit the ground, however, two hands seize me and pull me to my feet again. I shake my head to dismiss the haze in my eyes and squint to make our my rescuer. There stands my cousin David, now a Tory MP for a safe-seat fairly close to mine. "Steady now" he says, holding me upright, "You need to sit down". I shake my head and nod down the corridor. "I've work to do" I tell him as he begins to lead me into a office that I assume is his. "Whatever it is, it can wait" David instructs, and for a change I am obliged to listen to him, "You almost collapsed, for goodness sake". He helps me down into a seat, and I thank him. As stubborn as I might be, I was grateful for the support. I would be alright in a few moments, I was sure.

"You've been overdoing it again, haven't you?" David sighs, "I thought your doctors told you to-".

"My doctors don't appreciate that I have a government department to run" I interject, "Bear witness, Cousin, this is the price of hardwork". I manage to give him a wink, and he laughs. My head was beginning to clear again, but my heart still pounded. What I really needed was a cup of tea, but I couldn't see a kettle any where nearby. David seemed to be reading my mind, for he proclaims, hands on hips, "It's high time for a cup of tea, I suspect". He walks over the open door of his office and sticks his head out into the corridor. "George!" He calls. A few moments later, the George I was most familiar with appeared.

"Could you keep an eye on Liz whilst I make some tea?" David asks, and it's the first time I've seen the friendship between the two of them, "She almost fainted in the corridor just now, and I suspect she's in need of a brew". I was, very much so. The healing powers of tea really were unprecedented. Such was the British way. George nods and looks to me with a slightly concerned expression. He draws up another chair and places it near to me, before perching down upon in. Should any Labour MP walk by in this moment, they would think I had been kidnapped. David moves over to the door again.

"How do you take your tea again, Liz?" My cousin checks, "I always forget". I clear my throat and open my mouth to answer, but, to my surprise and confusion, George is able to answer for me. "One sugar and only a dash of milk" he says, and he is right, "Could you make me one too, please?". David smiles at him and replies with a jovial "Yes, dear" before disappearing to perform his all important task.

"How is it you can remember how I can take my tea, yet I can barely remember what I had for dinner yesterday?" I say, chuckling slightly. George jerks his head. It must have been about a decade since he had last made me a cup of tea, and yet he still managed to remember just how I took it. That was both warming and sad.

"They do say High Office ages you" George comments with feigned wistfulness. I snort. That was an understatement, at any rate. I often forgot that I was still only 32, not 50. Entering politics so young was perhaps not the wisest move. "Oh dear, are the grey hairs showing?" I joke. George pretends to search for them in the curly shoulder-length mass that formed on my head. "Youre even writing your own Daily Mail articles" George retorts. I laugh at that, and find my laughter helps to clear my mind. I was already feeling much better, but still I could feel my limbs shaking slightly. George notices the twitching of my hand as it rests upon my knee.

"You're ill, aren't you?" he asks, dark eyes now filling with concern. I sigh and move my hand away from sight, tucking it down against my side where it was not as free to shake. "I'm currently being treated for cardiomyopathy, insomnia, clinical depression and weight problems" I tell him quietly, feigning a smile, "I'd say so". I felt I had no issue in telling George these things. Even if we were still getting to know one another again, the trust I had held in him all of those years ago remained. "Well I'm certainly sorry to hear it" George says, offering me a sympathetic smile. He looks up as David enters the office again bearing two mugs. He sets one down on the small table nearby and hands the other to George. "Thank you, Jeeves" I jest. David makes a point of bowing so low that his nose almost touched the carpet, before disappearing again, I presume to fetch his own mug.

"We did say we'd take tea together" I chuckle, reaching for my own cup. I found the warmth it sent into my hands steadied me somewhat. At the least my hands were now only twitching very slightly. "I'm not entirely sure this what I had in mind" George replies with an amused smile, "Say, I presume there is a reason why you chose to come to this dark corner". I take a sip of my tea and jerk my head slightly. With my schedule as busy as it was, who knew when I would next be able to sit and talk to someone like this. My Forces Minister would be, as Bernard said earlier, neck-deep in constituency work. Whatever report he had to show me could wait, for now at least. "I do have something to sort" I tell George, "But it's nothing too pressing".

"Do feel free to blame me should you get into trouble" George says, with a flash of one of those old boyish grins. I manage a smirk. "Why, George" I remark, "Blaming Tories for my own failings is in my nature".


	42. NATO.

**12th November, 2004.**

**Munich, Germany.**

Here gathering where the many different Defence Ministers of NATO, bustling out of their cars with tired eyes as they prepared for the next few hours of talks. Defence was, in all honesty, a rather dry topic, but it was still extremely important, especially given the growing dangers we saw in all corners of the globe. I turn to a new advisor of mine, Jonathan, as our car rolls up to the chosen venue, a rather large and splendid hotel. "When are we to start talking?" I ask, straightening my skirt as I prepare to go and face the press. Jonathan, who in fairness was new to the job, had to flick through his notes for a moment. "Five" he answers, "You have just over an hour. I understand the US Defence Secretary wants to speak with you before the meeting begins". I can't help but groan. Ambushed by Americans already. I nod to Jonathan as my car door is opened for me.

I step out and instantly begin to survey the area. Press were crammed together on either side of the hotel entrance, bearing cameras and waving notebooks around in hope of a quote or two. You wouldn't think so many of them would be interested in a defence ministers meeting. I brush down my skirt in case of any unwanted specks and button my blazer again. I notice a correspondent of the BBC huddled amongst the plethora of journalists and approach them. "Good afternoon, Defence Secretary" they say, immediately sticking a microphone in my face, "What do you expect to discuss at the meeting today?".

"Well, we hope to get some important decisions made before the meeting of the Heads of State early next year" I answer, "Obviously I am not at liberty to reveal everything that we wish to discuss, but I can say that we also hope to talk about Afghanistan and what our continued peace-plan will be there".

"This is of course one of the first major meetings of defence ministers since the invasion of Iraq early last year" the BBC chap says, and I almost roll my eyes, "Do you anticipate any hostility from the defence spokesmen who warned against the invasion?". I sigh and offer him a smile.

"This is to be a relatively informal discussion about current events and problems. It's no secret that some had reservations about the action that we took in Iraq, but NATO as a body actually backed us in what we did" I point out, "If you're looking for fights here, you may be disappointed. None of us have any reason to be hostile to one another". The BBC correspondent narrows their eyes, but nonetheless withdraws the microphone and says "Thank you, Defence Secretary. We will no doubt talk to you later". I nod before beckoning to Jonathan and making my way into the hotel. Cameras flashed as I did, but I ignored them.

A member of staff greets me in the lobby, and informs me that my cases have already been taken to my room. Jonathan is led away to be briefed, along with the advisors of other ministers, and so I retreat up to my room for a bit of quiet before the meeting began. The Americans would be after me soon. I had to enjoy my peace whilst it lasted.

My room is fairly large, with everything I might need, and a few extras, such as a television. I wasn't sure what I might find to watch in Germany. German was a language I had never learnt, but always felt I should. From an early age, I had been taught to speak French and, at the insistence of my mother due to her heritage, Russian. Also, like all good privately-educated folk, I had been taught a fair bit of Latin. I didn't suppose I would be in a position to use it here, of course.

 I reach into my pocket and pull out the small and somewhat clunky mobile phone my father had given me. 'It's a brand new model' he had said, 'It's one of the best Nokia have made'. It was certainly an improvement on the brick-like devices I remembered from my teenage years. I dial the number of my home in Oxfordshire and wait for the phone to ring. Several moments later, I hear the voice of my housekeeper.

"Nelson residence" Dorothy says politely.

"Hello, Dorothy" I greet, hoping my smile would be apparent in my voice. Dorothy exclaims slightly and has a light chuckle to herself. "Hello, dear. I wasn't expecting a call from you" she answers.

"Not up to anything mischievious, are you?" I joke, and to that Dorothy continues to chuckle. "Young Master Alex and I are baking a cake" she tells me, and with bemusement I raise my eyebrows. I could already imagine the state of the kitchen. "Do try not to burn down the house" I warn jokingly, "Could I have quick word with Alex?". Dorothy gives me a 'yes, dear' before handing the phone over to my son.

"Mother!" he cries, "What is Germany like?". I smile at the sound of his voice fondly. I was very often away from home, and didn't really have too much of an issue with it, but I always missed my children. "It's lovely. I shall have to take you here one day" I answer, "What is this I hear about you baking a cake?". Alex giggles to himself in an adorable fashion. I did try to prevent myself from doting on him, but he really was so sweet a child.

"Dorothy found an old recipe for chocolate cake, so I asked if we could make it" he tells me excitedly, "I've never baked anything before". Had had aided Dorothy with dinners in the past, but was usually out at school whenever Dorothy baked anything. I couldn't cook, and so he had never been able to learn anything from me. "I could bake my own cake for my tenth birthday next year" Alex chirps. I laugh at the suggestion.

"You can't bake your own birthday cake" I tell him. "Yes I can!" he replies defiantly. I could imagine the carnage vividly. I was sorry to be away from it all. Suddenly, I hear a knock on my door. "I'll have to go now, Alex" I say with a sigh. I can almost sense my son's disappointment. "But you've only just rung us" he protests.

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I have work to do" I tell him, heart swelling with guilt, "I'll ring you again as soon as I'm done, okay?". Alex pauses for a moment before asking "Promise?".

"Promise" I swear, "Now you be a good boy and look after Dorothy and Emily for me". There are another series of knocks.

"I'll save a slice of cake for you" Alex tells me. I smile at that and bid him goodbye, before setting the phone down and taking a deep breath. I really did miss him sometimes. The knocking continues. I roll my eyes and move over to the door to see who it is.

"Elizabeth!" the man greets loudly. I resist the urge to grumble and instead offer him a small smile. The Americans had found me, as I feared they would. I was all for a close relationship between the British and the Americans, but I often found representatives of the States to be incredibly irritating. Americans were so much more brash and, well, loud than we were in Britain.

"Are you alright?" Donald Rumsfeld, my opposite number in the US, asks, "I knocked like a hundred times". I arch an eyebrow at him and step aside as to allow him and his companion in. "That makes a change" I quip, "Usually Americans choose to simply barge in to places". Donald laughs heartily and slaps me on the forearm as though I'm one of his greatest friends.

"This is Gordon" Donald says, patting his companion on the shoulder, "My deputy". I offer the man my hand and smile politely. "A pleasure to meet you, sir" I say. This Gordon fellow looked most fascinated by me, as though he had never before met a specimen like me. "Likewise, ma'am" he replies, "Might I ask where you're from? That's a fine accent you've got there". It was noted by my Scottish peers, particularly Gordon, that I no longer sounded Scottish, but instead, and this was often said begrudgingly, 'sounded English'. Yet it was still clear to my English peers that I was in fact a Scot. My accent fell in between the two, it seemed.

"I'm from Scotland originally" I speak, "But I've lived in England since the age of thirteen". Gordon looks to Donald, and in unison they both nod at one another. "Awesome" Gordon adds. Donald slaps him, in a 'friendly' sense, on the arm and clears his throat. "So" he says, "Afghanistan, huh?". I smile weakly at him. To think so much power was concentrated in the hands of these people. Still, it was better to have these two fools than George W Bush.

"The situation is tricky, but we have duty to the people of that country" I say, "I'll leave further discussion on extending the peace-plan at the table". Donald nods.

"Anyway, how is your prime minister?" He asks, perching himself down on the edge of a box chair located in the corner of the room, "Terrific guy, Blair". It was not just Bush who was infatuated with Tony. He had made a real impression on our US counterparts, and I still didn't think it a good thing.

"Very well. I shall send on your regards" I say, "And what of your president? Relieved to have won the election, no doubt". The US had held their presidential elections last week. As I had predicted, and partly feared, Bush had come out on top, defeating the rather likeable John Kerry. I had met George Bush on a number of occasions, and had always found him to be polite but dim. His apparent lack of clear intellect made him harmless company, but his actions were often questionable. Indeed, I did fear what exactly he was capable of.

"He saw off Kerry no problem" Donald shrugs, "The smart ass". I snort slightly at that and raise an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know" I respond, "Kerry has often struck me as rather agreeable". Gordon seems unaffected, but Donald freezes slightly. He blinks at me and says "He's a Democrat". I was tempted to go into a debate with the man on why I, personally, preferred the Democrats to the Republicans, but instead I simply said "He is at least a decent man". I didn't think overly highly of my American counterparts, but we were at least friendly with one another. I'd rather this kind of relationship than a cold and stilted one. The Labour Party and the Republican Party perhaps weren't the most convenient of allies, but we worked together well where we could. With all that had come to pass in the Middle East and beyond, it was important to retain some friends.


	43. The Campaign Trail.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We now enter 2005, with the general election drawing near. Elizabeth is busy campaigning for her party on the streets, but soon finds that she isn't the only one.

**20th April, 2005.**

**Henley-Upon-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

There was little better than canvassing on home ground, I had always found. It was often great fun to travel around the country and visit new areas on the campaign trail, but I always felt most at home, well, _at home_. Here I had the support of my local party, and its team of plucky volunteers.

I had allowed my constituency home to be used as a base of sorts whilst we sorted ourselves out for the day. Helena was present to look after Emily and Alex, and now also Catherine, my elder brother's daughter. Nevin, now a busy man as RBS's Chief Economist, had been keen to get away from his ever-annoying wife, and so he had chosen to take a small break and visit the family. Eva did her usual fluttering about in London, where I had also left Lionel. He was much less aloof nowadays, and was more or less his old self on most occasions. The reasons for his bizarre episode of grumpiness I had no idea. I had inklings, yes, but had chosen to waste little time on them.

"Say, where are the Smiths?" I ask, looking up as my volunteers gather in the kitchen, sorting through leaflets and rosettes, "And Ruth? And John?". Some of the familiar faces I was used to on the campaign trail were missing. My campaign manager, Kevin, turns a light shade of pink. "They're unable to make it" he tells me hurriedly. I narrow my eyes. "Because?" I ask, hesitantly. There was clearly something Kevin didn't want to tell me. Had they defected? I thought it unlikely, given how enthusiastically they had fought the election the last time. "They're helping the independent candidate this year" Kevin tells me, and all of a sudden quiet descends over the kitchen. I furrow my eyebrows, a slight feeling of betrayal setting in. "Why, may I ask?" I query, "Of course, they're entitled to campaign for whomever they choose, but it would have been nice to have had an explanation". Kevin turns to the other volunteers and looks between them all. They all seem to be waiting for him to say something. Then, he turns back to me and clears his throat.

"Rob Campion is standing" he tells me, a slightly wince on his face. I knew the surname, but not the man. I already felt rather uncomfortable. Whoever he was, there was no doubt in my mind that he was a member of the Campion family that I knew. I doubted it was any coincedence that he was standing against me. Whilst I had encountered no great anger from Mr and Mrs Campion, the parents of a constituent of mine who had been killed in Iraq. The people I had promised to help in 2003, but had ended up betraying. The reason for much of my guilt regarding Iraq. "He wants to stand as an independent candidate to, well, take a stab at you" Kevin adds, "William Campion was his brother. Naturally, he doesn't blame you literally for what happened, but he is angry about your involvement". I sigh and take a moment to gather my thoughts. Independents were rarely great threats to sitting MPs, but the symbolism of what Rob Campion was doing was damaging in itself. No doubt he would receive a lot of coverage from the press. I understood why he had chosen to stand against me, but I still wasn't happy to hear it.

"Never mind" I say, offering my team an optimistic smile, "Let's not fuss over rival candidates. We've work of our own to do". They all nod and return to their work, solemn expressions now vanishing. I stand back for a while, mulling about in my own thoughts. A creak of the floorboards behind me catch my attention. I turn, and instantly roll my eyes at what I see. There stands Nevin, now a bearded man of 36, in his usual countryside outfit of sensible brown shoes, ordinary trousers, a cashmere jumper and a thick jacket. Pinned to said jacket was a rosette of a deep blue. Nevin merely grins.

"So we're not the only ones out and about today, then?" I joke. Nevin holds up his hands in defence. "I've been away for so long. The local Conservative Association are baying for my blood" he tells me, "I promised I'd help out for just an hour or two". I shake my head, failing to resist the urge to smile. I had long since got used to having a family of Conservatives. I was, and always had been, the lone Labour member. My father had campaigned and donated large sums to Margaret Thatcher during her tenure as Conservative leader. Now it seemed my brother was doing the same for Michael Howard. Nevin had already conceded, however, that a Labour victory this year was highly likely, and so wasn't particularly offended by his decision to aid my nearest rivals.

"An MP is helping us today, you know" Nevin adds, the smallest hints of a smirk forming on his lips. I roll my eyes again. "Not David?" I ask, for the sight of my cousin and brother discussing Tory politics together was a common one. Nevin shakes his head and readjusts his rosette. "I shan't spoil the surprise" he says simply, "I'll see you later". And with that, he turns in the opposite direction and makes his way towards the front door. I allow myself a small chuckle. I hadn't heard of any great Tory grandee visiting my constituency. It seemed I would have to wait and see.

"Can I come?" Alex asks, suddenly appearing beside me. He tugs on my shirt slightly as if tying to be absolutely sure that he had my attention. I certainly am tempted. He would be ten years old in July, and had begun to seem genuinely intrigued by what it is I did. Of course, I was reluctant to drag him into any particular party, given that he was not yet at the age where he would be able to decide on one, but there was no harm in him campaigning for his mother, was there?

I cross over to one of the boxes of supplies on the counter and take out a red rosette. "Put this on your coat" I tell him, passing it down to him, "And make sure you put your comfiest shoes on". Alex's eyes brighten, and with an air of excitement he dashes off to get himself ready. There was little to be excited about, of course, but it would be experience for him.

"I'm ready" Alex says, emerging again, wearing his coat and shoes as I had instructed, "Can we go now?". I peck him on the forehead and smile. "You're certainly eager" I say, "Keep it up and you'll be an MP yourself one day".

* * *

 "VOTE ELIZABETH NELSON". A young activist, by the name of Daniel I believed, bellows it as he hands out literature left, right and centre. Amused by the alarmed look of residents passing by, I lean to him and whisper "Calm yourself, dear". It was good to see my team so enthusiastic, but there was a limit. A number of people had approached me for a chat, most of them kind. The people of Henley-Upon-Thames often broke away from the norm of Oxfordshire. There was just the right amount of left-wing students and surprisingly open-minded older folk. The chances were I would never lose this seat. Of course, I couldn't afford to be complacent.

"Oh, watch out" Kevin says, nodding over to where a ground people now huddled. They seemed to be discussing something. Through the huddle I could see flashes of blue, identical to that which Nevin had sported earlier. A closer look at the group told me that Nevin was indeed among them. After a moment or two, they split, my brother leading a troupe of volunteers up the street, whilst a man, whom I recognised to be this election's Conservative candidate, led another troupe down the street towards us. We all seemed to spread, and so in the end the bottom half of this particular street in Henley was awash with a sea of red and blue, working against one another yet also, in a way, alongside one another. As I finish my conversation with one local resident, I catch sight of a head of thick, dark hair, and pair of even darker eyes. A fairly tall and thin fellow who looked awkward but had an air of familiar confidence. With too little regard for the rosette I wore on my chest, I approach.

"George!" I call. The man turns to me and smiles. It was probably a bizarre spectacle for some, given that we were quite clearly from opposing sides, but I wasn't too fussed. If it came to it, I could always brush off our encounter as a mid-street debate. Such things weren't unheard of. "So you're the mystery guest my brother mentioned" I say. George grins.

"Were you expecting Margaret Thatcher? Perhaos Disraeli himself?" he jokes, "This was our seat for decades before you arrived. You can't blame us for trying". It was fair. The lack of animosity between our two sides showed that the Conservatives weren't too serious about this constituency. Henley was classed as a safe Labour seat now. The chances of them taking it were slim, something George seemed to appreciate. "Not an optimist?" I jest, beginning to walk casually alongside him. Mant others, from both sides, were handing out leaflets and talking with voters. They wouldn't miss us for a moment or two.

"A realist" George states, "In all honesty, I don't think it's us you have to worry about". His eyes drift off to another side of the street. I follow them, to find yet another group of people gathering. They too begin to hand out leaflets. They bore no symbols, nor any colours it seemed. I could see the Smiths among them, as well as Ruth and John. So they had abandoned be for the independent candidate. It was a disappointing sight, of course, but they had every right to.

"He says he wants justice for his brother" George says quietly, eyes fixing on a figure I presumed to be Rob Campion, "I can understand why he's doing it, but this is more of a stunt than a call for justice". I nod slowly and sigh.

"I can't say I blame him for wanting to unseat me" I say, finding the comment slips out of my mouth almost involuntarily. George shakes his head and looks to me most sympathetically. "I voted for the invasion just as you did" he argues, "He can come for Tatton and contest my seat too". I can't help but smile at that. Even if we were of warring sides, he made for good company. I suppose that is why I had approached him.

"Say, he's very young for an activist" George says, glancing over my shoulder, "Or is he a candidate?". I snort slightly at that, instantly reminded of all the criticisms that had been made of my age when I was first announced as the Labour candidate for this area in 1991. I could even remember George himself reading a number of the comments made in the letters pages of the local newspaper, putting on various amusing accents as he did so. It had been a long time since I had last looked upon my memories of the early 1990s. I found they made me smile.

I glance behind me, winking to Alex as I see him, alongside Kevin, giving out leaflets with a look of genuine pride in is eye. He was so very happy to be taking part, and that in itself warmed my heart. "A most plucky young campaigner" I remark, "I suppose he gets it from me". George glances between myself and Alex, before raising an eyebrow slightly. "My son, Alex" I explain, "He offered to come along and help". George smiles kindly, casually handing out Conservative leaflets to a passing couple as he did so. We were some how managing to talk and campaign simultaneously. It was a flawless yet odd spectacle.

"Indoctrinating them from an early age, I see" he says, tutting comically, "The cult of Blair grows. How old is he?". His dark eyes move to Alex again, as if fascinated to see one so young out on the campaign trail. Then again, the average age for Conservative members did seem to be about 190. It was no doubt refreshing for him to see someone below the age of 85 passing party literature to people.

"He's ten this year" I answer, looking back to my son to make sure that he was alright, "He was born in July 1995, if you can remember that far back. It seems like an age". George nods. "July?" he asks, glancing back over to where little Alex stood. I furrow my eyebrows at him momentarily. "Rather sudden, I know, but you know how these things are" I say. George drifts off for a few seconds, before shaking his head and giving me one of those old boyish grins. Even in his early 30s, George managed to deliver them as though still a teenager. "Still, as much as I enjoy talking to you" he says, "We've a seat to win back". I arch an eyebrow and smirk.

"Whatever happened to realism?" I wonder. George shrugs and begins to walk away, seeking out an ideal spot where he might be able to ambush some possible voters. "This is politics" he tells me, "No doubt I'll see you around". I wave to him, and turn, eyes scouring the street for my team. They had submerged themselves in the thickness of the street by now, and so my sole way of finding them all was by looking for flashes of red amongst the crowds. I spotted the red curls and dark eyes of my Alex not too far away, and began to walk towards him. Just as I reach him, I head George speak again. He seems to be panting slightly, and so I figure he had run after me, the strange chap.

"Do you still like Elvis?" he asks bluntly. I frown at him, quiet. My mother had been an ardent fan of Elvis Presley as a teenager, and so I had grown up listening to his records. I was surprised George still remembered, in all honesty. "Yes. I do" I reply, confusion clear, "Why?".

"Well, I gather there is to be an Elvis night at the town hall this evening" George informs me, "I'm staying in the area until tomorrow morning, so I thought I might offer to take you along". My right eyebrow raises of its own volition. It was certainly an unexpected invitation, and one I found I wasn't wholly comfortable with.

"Do you not think it would be, perhaos, inappropriate?" I suggest. 'DEFENCE SECRETARY SNUBS EDITOR HUSBAND AND COSIES UP TO MARRIED TORY FRONTBENCHER AT ELVIS ACT'. I could already see the headlines. Of course, the chances of the national press finding their way to Henley-Upon-Thames' town hall were small, but no doubt they would hear of it some how. "Would it be fun, that is the real question" George says, and to that I can't help but laugh, "I'm allowed to be friends with you, surely?". Alex joins me by my side and holds my hand, his other hand clutching party leaflets.

"What do you think, Alex?" I ask, as my son looks to George with curious eyes, "This is George, an old colleague of mine. Shall we be his friends?". I look between the two of them as they look to one another, brown eye meeting brown eye. "Yes" Alex decides, giving George one of his typically sweet smiles, "Yes we shall".


	44. From Doncaster to Nairn.

**22nd April, 2005.**

**Doncaster, England.**

The next leg of my usual election tour had taken me to Doncaster, a reasonably sized place home to a wide range of people. I had been taken here, an area safely dominated by Labour, to aid a very old friend of mine. I made so clear as gave my speech before the gathered supporters.

"This seat has been a safe one for our party for decades. Labour has served the people of Doncaster North well. Indeed, since 1992, Kevin Hughes has served Doncaster North well" I speak, voice loud enough for even those at the back to hear, "And I can think of no greater successor than Ed Miliband. And for that reason I ask that you give him your complete and unequivocal support". The gathered clap and woop, as I turn to Ed. He no longer wore his old round glasses, and perhaps wasn't as awkward as he had once been, but he was still very much my Ed. I often missed working with him so closely in the Treasury, but the prospect of working with him again, not as an advisor but an MP, pleased me.

"I think you're going to do very well indeed, Ed" I tell him. Ed grins.

"Do you think?" he asks. I nod and give him a warm hug. I had to appreciate his company whilst I had it, didn't I? We were still the best of friends, no matter what. "To think the gangly little creature I found on my doorstep at Christmas in 1992 might soon be joining me in the Commons" I chuckle, "I am so very proud of you, Ed". Ed beams at me, as sweet and goofy as ever. "I'll do my best" he says, and I can ask no more of him.

"Ms Nelson?" my advisor Jonathan, who had certainly become much more efficient since our venture to Germany last year, interjects, "We need to catch the train to Scotland in around fifteen minutes". I glance at my watch and tut. I had ended up talking much longer than I had intended to, but it was difficult to stop when one was talking of something one felt so strongly about. I mentioned not just Ed's great qualities as a person, but the lack of them in the opposition. I took the time to criticise the wider plans of the Conservative Party, which seemed to insist on talking only of crime and immigrants. The slogan 'are you thinking what we're thinking?' had caused much hilarity in Labour circles, and the answer was a clear and resounding no. I had been most pleased to hear George denounce the more distasteful elements of the Conservative campaign.

"I need to go. I wish I could stay longer, I really do" I tell Ed. He shakes his head and offers me one final hug. "It's alright, you're rather busy" he replies, "If you see Gordon in Scotland, send him my regards". I roll my eyes.

"Scotland is quite a large place, Ed, it's not the local Tesco" I joke. Ed raises an eyebrow at me. "You mean you actually know what Tesco is?" He mocks. I give him a light knock on the shoulder and begin to make my exit. "Oh, I'm an acquaintance of its owner" I laugh, "Good bye, Ed. If I don't speak to you before the result, good luck!". Ed waves to me, immersing himself once more in the gathered supporters. I thank a number of them and wish them well, before beckoning to Jonathan and making my way towards the train station. Before they're completely out of sight, I glance around to the Labour group gathered around Ed. It was rare to see Ed so at ease. He was clearly very liked by his local Labour Party, and I also admired. No doubt he would find himself in government one day, perhaps soon. Or perhaps he may even go further than that. Whilst Ed at No. 10 would be a rather strange sight, he would certainly deserve it.

The train station was most busy by the time we arrived, and our desired train was just pulling in. I glance to Jonathan. "Could you perhaps run through the plan with me again?" I ask, wanting to keep him on his toes. Jonathan does not need to consult his notes this time, and to that I smile. He was definitely learning. "We're to arrive in Nairn at around half four. There will be a car waiting at the train station to take you to your accommodation" he tells me, only with a small hint of hesitation, "Then you are to go to a local hotel to give a speech at six". I nod to him appreciatively and turn my gaze towards the train as it pulled into the station. It was to be the first speech I gave on my brief. Despite being Secretary of State for Defence, I had spent much of the election talking about the economy; pointing out steady growth since 2001 and trying to dismiss fears over climbing taxes and debt.

"Will the bar be open?" I ask as we climb onto the train. Jonathan looks to me with a puzzled expression. "The bar?" He asks. There was clearly much I had yet to educate him on. "I may have lived in England for two decades" I say, "But I am still very much a Scot". Jonathan seems to consider this as though alcohol really was a requirement for all Scots. That was certainly the opinion my father took, as I would see when I arrived in Nairn later in the day. For now, I could sleep. With all that was sure to ensue in the coming days, I felt I definitely needed it.

* * *

 "William? Where is our William?". I open my eyes and find myself not on a cosy train in the middle of no where, but lying down on dusty, hot earth. The ground stings my skin, as though it had been aflame only moments before. "William?". I narrow my eyes and glance around. Clouds of dust gather, and in the distance I hear rumblings. Yet the sound I hear the clearest is the sound of a voice I had heard on a number of occasions before.

"Where is our William?". The voice is suddenly very close, and with a gasp I turn to be confronted by the eyes of Mr Campion, the poor constituent I had promised to help so long ago. His eyes had a great sadness to them, but also loathing. There was a steeliness in him here that I had not noticed before. Campion stares right at me, into my very being, eyes boring into the soul I too often misplaced. "Why is our boy dead?" Mr Campion asks me. I pick myself up from the ground and have another look around. The rumblings in the distance were now paired with sharp gunfire.

I turn to Mr Campion and blink at him, most helpless for words. "I, I don't know what to say" I admit. Mr Campion does not even blink. He continues to stare in a way that unnerves me greatly. "Why did my boy die?" he asks again, his expression calm yet his eyes blazing. I'd never known such resentment in so kind a man. "I'm so sorry, Mr Campion" I stutter, and for once I feal genuinely fearful, "I am so very sorry. I didn't mean for any one to-".

"Why did he have to die? Why did my William have to sacrifice himself?" the questioning continues, "Is your son safe, Ms Nelson? Is he alive?". I am struck by a new kind of fear. Of course my boy was alive. What did the Campions know of him? Was he indeed safe? I find myself glancing around the dusty wasteland that I had so suddenly found myself in, as if desperate to see the face of my beloved boy.

"Alex? Alex is okay. He is absolutely okay" I manage, "Please, Mr Campion, I-". The man turns his head away and faces the dust that accumulates around us. My instinct is to run, to try and escape whatever horrific dream this was, yet something makes me stay. "Think about him" Mr Campion says quietly, "Think about my boy". And with that he seems to disappear, yet before I am left completely on my own, a soft hand touches my shoulder. Suddenly, the dusty landscape around me fades away, and I find myself standing behind my desk at a constituency surgery.

Now I find myself facing not Mr Campion, but Mrs Campion, the nervous but amicable Julie, with her sad but understanding eyes. "I know you don't really want this" she says, before squeezing my hand and disappearing just as her husband had done. Yet Mr Campion's voice can still be heard.

"William?"

"Ms Nelson?"

"William?"

"Ms Nelson?"

I am shaken from my slumber most literally. Jonathan crouches over me, hand gently clasping my forearm as he shakes me. I take a moment to gather my thoughts before opening my eyes again. "We're here" Jonathan tells me, a slight look of concern on his face. Heaven forbid I might have said something in my sleep. I had suffered similar episodes before, but never in such a public environment.

"We need to meet the car now" Jonathan adds, gathering together his things. I nod and straighten myself up where I sleep. Perhaps I might look slightly disheveled, but I suspected there were more important things to worry about. I would always have time to tidy myself up before my speech in the evening. "Yes" I mumble, forcing my mind to wrench itself away from the bizarre yet very real dream I had just had, "Absolutely".

* * *

 Visits to the family home in Nairn always reminded me of how frightfully old-fashioned we all were. My driver had taken me up the long driveway and to the door, where an older man dressed very smartly indeed was waiting to open my door for me. I allowed him to, of course, but only out of courtesy to him. I had offered to accommodate Jonathan too, but he had instead decided on a room at a local hotel. It was probably the wiser decision, really.

"Welcome home, ma'am" the old man says, bowing his head to me as I exit the car, as though I'm a royal of some sort, "Your mother and father are in the lounge. I shall take your cases". I thank him and take a moment to appreciate the building before me. It was an old place, built long before any relative of mine had held a title. My mother of course, being of old noble stock, had introduced me to many a great estate, but this tipped them all. To think the first 13 years of my life had been spent at so grand a place. The rather large and modest home I owned in Oxford seemed like a dingy bedsit now.

"Oh, my darling!" my mother gushes as I enter the lounge, a large and airy room that looked out onto the lawn at the back of the house. I allow her to squeeze me as tight as possible. It had been some time since she had last seen me, after all. "I'm so very glad you came" she says, "Your father and I have missed you a great deal, haven't we, Douglas?". My father looks up from his newspaper and grins most cheerfully. He begins to struggle to his feet, and so I walk over and kneel down beside his armchair. Issues of ill health and a dicky heart had left my father often frail, yet he retained his jolly plumpness.

"My lovely Elizabeth" he dotes, giving me a kiss on the cheek, "What has kept you away from us for so long?".

"There is an election going on at the moment, Father" I say with a small laugh, "Have you been following any of it?". Father sighs and scratches his balding head. "I'd be much more inclined to were Mrs Thatcher involved" he tells me plainly, "Howard is a wet blanket compared to her". Suddenly he laughs, as heartily and loudly as ever. My father had always had a habit of laughing at random points during conversation. It was a rather lovely trait, of course.

"Say, I was reading about you in The Sun the other day" Father goes on, as I perch down on the chair nearest to him, "Those bastards". Mother tuts and shakes her head at him. "Douglas, you mustn't use that language" she corrects. Father shoots her a disapproving look. My father was nothing if not candid.

"Some of the things they write about you, goodness me" Father exclaims, bewilderment evident on his jolly old face, "You're a very beautiful girl, Liz, but I do wish they wouldn't treat you like a piece of meat". I was glad to hear my father took that view. He had not always been the standardbearer for equality, but he had always at least treated women very fairly. He often told me of how, because his own father was usually busy, he was essentially raised solely by women.

"Queen Bess, some of them call you. Others just seem to refer to as a, what was it? _A lady in red_ " Father tells me, and to that I scoff. Was it because my party's colour was red? Or because of my hair? Or perhaps the fact that I often wore red lipstick? Or because I happened to own red dresses? How desperate the nation's press must have been to come up with such a nickname. "You're not Blair's prostitute, for goodness sake" Father blurts, and this time he speaks with not a hint of joviality. My mother shakes her head disapprovingly. Father dismisses her and takes my hand in his own.

With one of his old, kind smiles he tells me "You keep standing up for yourself, my love", and to that I smile, as I intended to do precisely what he says. And with that, my father finally musters the energy to get to his feet. He claps his hands together as if trying the attention of the room, before sliding them into the pockets of the cardigan he wore. "Right" he proclaims, "Who wants a whisky?".


	45. Mrs Thatcher.

**23rd April, 2005.**

**Nairn, Scotland.**

It felt to awake once more in my old bed. The room I had once occupied as a young girl had changed a great deal since the 1980s, but it was still my room. The single bed covered with teddy bears had been replaced by a king size. The space in which I had once pinned posters of Pat Benatar and David Bowie was now occupied by a fine oil painting. The clear space to the left of the room where I used to practice my ballet routines the night before shows now boasted a desk. I ponder on these changes as I lay in bed, daylight threatening to spill through the curtains. I give a small yawn and pull myself to my feet, covering myself with the thin robe that hung on the back of my door. The moment I open the door, I am hit by the smell of toast, and find it hungers me greatly.

"Yes, yes" I hear my mother say as I descend down the staircase, "Alex, my dear, that is most wonderful to hear". I find my ears prick up, and with increased haste I seek her out. I find her in the kitchen, a phone pressed to her ear. A toast rack amongst other things had been set out. I eyed it briefly, stomach grumbling slightly, before returning my focus to the phone call. "Yes. In fact she's here now" my mother says, suddenly turning to me. She extends her arm and passes me the phone. I wasn't quite sure of the time, but I was sure it was early morning. Was everything alright? There was only one Alex we knew.

"Alex, darling, is everything alright?" I ask, maternal panic sinking in. "Dorothy wouldn't let me call yesterday night" my son answers plainly, "I wanted to tell you about my maths test". I run a hand through my hair and sigh. Of all the things to call about so early in the morning. "I got full marks, mother" Alex cries, "Full marks on a maths test!". I can't help but smile. The private tutoring had clearly paid off, as had Alex's own determination. In a way I was glad that he had rung. "I'm very proud of you. Well done" I tell him, "You're doing very well indeed".

"When will you be back?" Alex asks suddenly. I sigh and quickly run through my schedule in my head. I had given my speech yesterday as intended, outlining my party's intentions for defence in our next term. There was still much of the country that I had yet to see during this election, but I knew it was Oxfordshire that I really wanted to go to. "I'm not sure, darling" I tell him honestly, "Say, I think Tony may be visiting the area soon. I'm sure I could get him to call by. No doubt he would be happy to tell you all about his job, and all the other things you've been asking about". His interest was certainly growing. He had found leafleting with myself and my team in Henley to be rather enjoyable, and was now keen, despite his tender age, to try and keep up with the election. I seldom had the time to sit down and explain things to him fully, and so I would be grateful to Tony if he did stop by.

"Really?" Alex asks, and I can imagine his excited eyes, "Tony will still be Prime Minister, won't he?". I certainly hoped so. Our majority was a large one. The chances of Michael Howard moving us to the point of defeat were slim. Even so...

"Of course he will" I say, knowing Alex would not like the idea of it being any other way. He liked Tony and Gordon a great deal. He was also very fond of Charles. Most of my colleagues found him to be a pleasant, bright boy, for that he was. "If Tony comes" Alex goes on, "Does that mean I can get away from Eva?". My brows furrow at the very mention of her name. As far as I knew, Eva was still in London. For what reason would she come to Oxford?

"Eva? Alex, is she there?" I ask, stern expression catching the attention of my mother, who prepares egg and bacon for my father by the stove. "She's been here since yesterday" Alex tells me casually, "I thought perhaps she'd come to see Uncle Nevin, but he had already left for London. Father let her stay. He seemed quite glad to see her, I think". I scoff and find an inanimate object to fix my cold stare on. "Was he now" I mutter, tempted to get the very next train down to England. My vicious thoughts are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

My mother now stands behind me, holding another phone. This time it's my own, and without a sound she mouthes 'It's Peter Mandelson'. I sigh heavily and take the phone from my mother. I would have to say my goodbyes to Alex before he told me any more about Eva's little visit. "I'm afraid I'll have to go, darling" I tell him, rubbing my eyes wearily, "I'll try and call you later. Be a good boy now. And keep up that maths work". Alex giggles and gives me his love, before hanging up. I felt like crawling back into bed again. To think I had woken up feeling relatively refreshed. I was tempted to have a moment to collect my thoughts, but I then remembered the other phone in my hand.

"Peter?" I ask, raising it to my ear, "Is everything alright?". Peter no longer sat in the Commons with us. He had taken up the role as European Commissioner for Trade and left. Knowing Peter, he would make a return some how. "I've just been speaking to Tony on the phone" Peter tells me, "I need you to defuse the situation between he and Gordon". That was not exactly what I wanted to hear. Yet more dissension in our ranks. In public, Tony and Gordon were content with one another. In private, they just about managed to speak.

"I'm in Scotland" I tell Peter, "I can't be a mother to them both all the time".

"Why ever not, that is exactly how the satirists depict you" Peter comments, and I am reminded involuntarily of the many cartoons I had seen over the years indeed depicting me as an impatient mother, attempting to keep Tony and Gordon from fighting. "What exactly can I do?" I ask.

"Liz, you and I both know you're perfectly capable of being sharp with both of them" Peter reminds me, "You know, you have learn more from me than you might think". I never forgot that the first friend I made upon my arrival in Parliament in 1992 was Peter. We had shared an office for quite some time, and indeed I had learnt a great deal from him during that. He was no great mentor to me, however, at least not by my own estimations.

"Whatever do you mean?" I query. From the other end of the line, Peter sighs.

"Whether you choose to believe it or not, you have manoeuvred yourself perfectly over the past thirteen years. You're able to retain good relations with both sides" he explains, and with slight impatience I listen, "Accepting the job at Defence in 2000, allowing Tony to think he now had you under his control whilst also keeping up a good relationship with Gordon. They both want you securely in their camps, yet you find a way to balance between the two. You're less a pawn and more a queen". I took on board the message, but couldn't resist a small joke.

"I never knew you thought so much of me, Peter" I quip, "And here's me thinking you only went for-".

"Elizabeth, please" Peter interjects, and I cannot resist a smirk, "This is important. There is a great perception amongst voters that their Prime Minister and Chancellor hate one another".

"Then they perceive right" I remark.

"But they shouldn't" Peter states, "Both Tony and Gordon fail to grasp just how damaging this imagine is. I need you to ram the message home". I sigh. It would be a task, and I wasn't entirely sure how I would go about it, but with Peter away in Europe, it seemed the mission was truly left to me. "I shall invoke my inner brutality" I say with an air of jest. Peter gives a small chuckle. "Speaking of political brutality" he says, going off topic for a moment, "I wish you luck with Thatcher today". I raise an eyebrow.

"Thatcher?" I ask. Was she to visit Nairn for some reason? It was very rare that she got involved with mainstream politics. She seemed to keep herself to herself these days. Not that I could blame her. "Word is she's coming to take tea with your father" Peter informs me, and I am quite tempted to groan, "Goldsmith overheard her speaking of it in the tearoom at the Lords".

"Well then" I reply, definitely wanting to retreat to bed again, "That certainly gives me something to look forward to".

* * *

 I can hear her voice before I can see her. I find it makes me grimace slightly. I had a great deal of respect for Mrs Thatcher. She had dealt me some inspiration growing up. She has also encouraged me to join the Labour Party. I saw great gaps between her politics and mine. Nonetheless, there was much I could learn from her. And so, taking a deep breath and readjusting my clothes, I walk into the lounge.

"Ah, there she is" my father says, looking up from his armchair, "Margaret, this is my eldest daughter, Elizabeth". He tries to get to his feet, but I tell him to stay still. Mrs Thatcher, dressed in one of her usual blue skirt suits, does get to her feet, however, and offers me her hand. We'd met on a few occasions previously, but I imagined her memory of me was rather faded. "The young lady who unseated Michael?" she said, offering me a small smile, "A pleasure to see you". We both sit down, and I begin to pour myself a cup of tea from the tea pot on the table before us.

"I was just telling Margaret about what you were saying about Brussels yesterday" my father says, looking to me briefly before turning back to Thatcher with most adoring eyes, "Quite incensed she was". That I was. Of course, I was grateful for our close relationship with our European neighbours, but they really could be a great pain.

"My dear, I can certainly sympathise" Mrs Thatcher says, "I found myself up against Brussels for eleven years. It's the bureaucracy that kills it, as well as the obsessive need for everyone to huddle together ever more". I find I agree somewhat.

"Of course, I'm very grateful that we're no longer fighting one another" I assess, for that was the perceived original purpose of the European Union, "But I do wish they wouldn't be quite so intrusive". Their involvement in Britain seemed to grow with each passing year. I wonder what exactly the EU would look like in ten years time.

"You mark my words" my father pipes up, "One day we'll cease to be Britain and become part of a country called Europe". Mrs Thatcher looks to him with a look of understanding and sips her tea. "I'm not sure it's quite as bad as that, Father" I say, "Though no doubt it's on the minds of some in Brussels. We're not the only country that would object to the idea. It would never be carried through". My father emits a small chuckle and waves his empty tea cup in my direction.

"What makes you think they'll actually seek approval for it?" he suggests. His eurospecticism was certainly more deep rooted than mine. I looked to the European Union pragmatically. It was far from a perfect institution, but it could be improved, surely? "I doubt whether they're bold enough" Mrs Thatcher says, "We need a strong leader to stand up to them. I'm afraid your Mr Blair does not offer that". Tony was very much a support of the EU, and many of its projects. He had spoken in favour of the Euro on a few occasions.

"I don't know. He's kept them at bay for the last eight years" I speak in Tony's defence. Mrs Thatcher sets her tea cup down on its saucer and gazes off into the distance for a moment, as if deep in thought. "Say, what we need is a better foreign secretary" she says, looking to me with another of her small smiles, "Mr Straw is a learned man, I'm sure, but does he have the steel to stand up for us abroad?". I raise an eyebrow at her. I glance at my father only to find that he too is looking at me with an expectant glint in his eye.

"It's highly unlikely that Jack will be moved" I tell them both, "Tony is happy for him to carry on as Foreign Secretary". Mrs Thatcher raises an eyebrow. I could tell she thought otherwise. Her political insight was no doubt greater than mine, but I liked to believe I knew Tony better than she did. Still, her ability to observe these things was uncanny.

"I fail to see why Mr Blair might object to a fresh pair of eyes, especially when they're such pretty eyes too" Mrs Thatcher smiles, and I find there is warmth in it. She certainly wasn't as cool or intimidating as I remembered.

"Goodness, is that the time?" She says, glancing at her watch, "I fear I must be off". I notice Father beginning to stand, and so I hurry over to his side to help him. He stands before Mrs Thatcher and beams most radiantly at her. I was sure he was her among her greatest admirers. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he revealed he had in fact fallen in love with her. "Margaret, it has been such a pleasure to see you again" he says, as they peck one another on the cheek, "You must come more often". Mrs Thatcher sets her hands atop of his for a moment, and I'm surprised Father doesn't faint. "You know, you really must find yourself a peerage, Douglas" she says, to which we all chuckle, "You must bring these great opinions of yours to the Lords". That was another task for me, perhaps. Getting Tony to give my aging father a peerage.

"I'll start working on it" I quip, "The Lord Douglas Nelson of Nairn, perhaps?". It was intended as a joke, but my father's eyes genuinely light up. I have a slight feeling I had unintentionally disturbed an ants nest. Father would get excited by the prospect, and begin telling his friends, many of whom had peerages, that he was destined for the Lords. He could be awarded for his services to business. He was a seventy-two year old of poor health who had been overseeing a multi-million pound business since inheriting it from his father aged twenty-five. It was deserving of something.

"I look forward to it" Mrs Thatcher says, "Perhaps your daughter will follow suit when her time in the Commons is done". I laugh involuntarily at that. My career as an MP was far from done, at least from my own point of view. Still, it would be rather nice to retire to the Lords. Such things were far away, of course.

"Wouldn't that be a coup" I chuckle, "Baroness Nelson. I can scarcely imagine it".


	46. A Moment For Humility.

**6th May, 2005.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

For the fourth time, I stand in the crowded town hall of Henley, red rosette pinned to my chest. These moments had not made me truly nervous since my initial election in 1992. Michael Heseltine was long gone, and my majority was sizeable. The Labour vote had gone up by a good 4% at the last election, though I highly doubted we would see any further swings on this occasion. It was unlikely that I would be unseated this night, or rather morning, but I was expecting a decreased majority.

"Don't pay him any attention" Kevin says quietly, eyeing up Rob Campion not for the first time. The Indepedent and his supporters had occupied the corner of the room that myself and my team usually gravitated towards. It was of no consequence, but I supposed they felt it to be a stab in our direction. The youngest of our own team, an Oxford student by the name of Daniel, rushes over to us bearing a scrap of paper. "I've been doing some numbers" he tells me, "I predict you'll get about 41%". Kevin sighs and scratches his scalp impatiently. Whilst he mutters to himself, I glance at Daniel's findings. They were all written in pencil on a small piece of crumpled paper, with each number written in haste. Yet it all added up. I wondered whether Daniel had a calculator on hand.

"That's down 10%" Kevin points out dismally, "The Tories only need a swing of 7% to take the seat". I am about to interject, but Daniel beats me to it.

"But you forget the presence of our Indepedent friend over there" he says confidently, "Some Tory voters will have rallied to him in protest over the invasion. The 10% lost won't go solely to the Tories". I nod. It was precisely what I was going to point out. George had said only the other week that Rob Campion was the candidate I had to fear.

"We'll perfectly fine" I tell Kevin, offering him a smile, "We shan't lose this seat. I'll be frank and tell you that I don't expect to retain such a big majority, but that I have only myself to blame for that". Kevin looks to me with sorry eyes for a moment, before giving me a small smile. I could manage optimism with some realism thrown in.

"Candidates" the returning officer calls, stepping up onto the assembled stage, "Candidates please gather". I look to Kevin and the rest of my team and give them one final nod before making my way over. As I walk, the Conservative candidate, a local barrister in his mid thirties, speaks to me in a hushed tone. "Campion has got a speech ready" he informs me, "I don't suppose losing will put him off, either". I sigh and take my place amongst the other candidates. "I wouldn't wish for him to be put off" I confess. The Conservative, whose name I forget, raised a bemused eyebrow at me. "A rather noble admission" he comments, "So long as you don't mind being humiliated so publicly".

"I suppose I don't" I reply, turning my eyes forward to where the returning officer prepared himself, "If ever there was a time for humility, its now". The Tory smiles and shakes his head slightly. The occupants of the hall gather around the stage, eyes wide as they wait for what was bound to unfold. "Before I announce the results" the returning officer speaks, "I would like to invite Mr Rob Campion to step forward to give a small address". I make sure my facial expression remains unchanged. I was quite alright with Campion giving a speech, but to say his words wouldn't hurt was a lie. I watch as he stands before the lectern and withdraws a double-sided piece of paper. At least we would get the worst part of the morning out of the way.

"Thank you, Returning Officer. I shall try to be brief, as I know we are all anticipating the results of the count" Rob Campion speaks, his voice faltering slightly, "I am no politician, nor am I a great public speaker, though I think my words have more weight to them than any government minister's". Stab number one. Thankfully, my skin was thick, and so no damage was done as yet.

"My brother was barely twenty years old when he was killed in Iraq, some eighteen months ago. He had been very eager to join the army prior to that, but I remember him expressing reservations over the invasion of 2003" he went on, "He doubted the reasons for it, yet a sense of duty and a will to take action took him into it all. He was taken by a war that he didn't fully understand. A war that none of us really understand". There is light applause amongst the gathered, with many onlookers nodding solemnly to his words. I keep my eyes fixed on the clock on the far side of the hall, perfectly straight-faced.

"I have questions to ask. I want to know why exactly my brother was killed. I want to know whether the intelligence behind the invasion is as legitimate as was claimed at the time" Campion speaks, volume increasing slightly as his anger grew, "I want to know why our Defence Secretary, our own MP, thought it was a good idea". There is more applause now, with only the gathered Labour and Conservative supporters watching in total silence. Some eyes now dart towards me, but I ignore them.

"I don't blame Ms Nelson for my brother's death. Rather like William, I don't believe her heart was really in it, yet some sense of duty, perhaps to Mr Blair, led her into it" he says, and only now do I let my guard down slightly, "Ms Nelson, all I ask from you is an apology. An apology for your involvement, and an admission that what your government did was wrong. It won't take away the pain I feel entirely, but it will give satisfaction not just to me, but to the families of all of those who were killed in that awful war". With that, Rob Campion steps aside and rejoins the line of candidates on the stage. Those sound the stage applaud, some of them cheering. I look to my feet to try and regain my composure.

 "Now, the results" the returning officer announcing, making his way up to the lectern again, "I, the undersigned, as the returning officer for the constituency of Henley, hereby give notice that the total number of votes for each candidate is as follows". I take a deep breath and hold my head up as high as I dare. Here goes.

"Janet Long, Liberal Democrat. 3,378" comes the first result, followed soon after by, "Harry Brown, UK Independence Party. 1,238".

"Francis McGrath. Conservative" the returning officer speaks, and with baited breath I wait to see whether Daniel's theory regarding the vote swing was right, "14,502". The Conservative supporters nearby clap and cheer, cleadlg confident that they had shaved a considerable amount from my majority. Then came the result I had truly been waiting for. I glance over to where Rob Campion stood on the stage, only to be met with cold eyes. I knew they would continue to be cold until I gave him what it was he wanted. The apology. It would be a false move politically, and it would annoy Tony somewhat, but perhaps it was right for me to do something on principle for a change.

"Robert Campion, Independent" the returning officer begins, and the entire hall suddenly falls perfectly quiet. So quiet that I am sure I can hear my own breathing echo. I admit to feeling frightened now. Frightened and somewhat ashamed.

"16,920". There is a collective gasp. Such a tally was often unheard of for Indepedent candidates. It wasn't enough to take the seat, but it was a lot. Campion's point had been made. The bolt had been kicked in. I may have held onto my seat, but I couldn't see a victory here in Henley tonight, certainly not for myself.

"Elizabeth Nelson. 20,168" the returning officer says finally, and with a sigh I close my eyes for a moment, "I hereby declare that Elizabeth Nelson is returned as the Member of Parliament for Henley". My team and others applaud and woop, though some of them somberly. I try to give the cameras below a small smile, but I find I can't quite manage it.

"I would like to start in the usual fashion and thank all those who have supported me over the past few weeks. I'd also like to thank the good people of Henley for returning me once again as their MP" I say, "Though, before I talk of anything else, I would like to address some of that which Mr Campion mentioned in his speech earlier". The cameras were well and truly rolling now, and all of those gathered near waited on my every word with anticipation for what came next.

"I fully accept and respect the arguments made agains the invasion of Iraq. I fully accept that there are those, including in this hall, who objected very strongly to the invasion, and indeed what followed" I tell them, perfectly honestly, "To those people-". My voice trails off slightly, and I find myself hit by a sudden wave of sadness. I didn't like the idea of losing my composure so publicly, but I couldn't help myself on this occasion. I clear my throat and go on.

"To those people I offer my apologies" I state, and I am relieved to have the words out. As I pause for another moment, my words are met with applause. "I shan't apologise for the removal of Saddam Hussein, but I shall apologise for the events that unfolded during and after the process" I proclaim, feeling my soul lighten with every syllable, "I am the mother of two lovely children, and I am able to see those children whenever I can. To think about those out there who will no longer be able to see their own children breaks my heart". I find I have to clear my throat again.

"I realise these words probably seem hollow to some, but I mean them all. I shan't cast doubt upon the integrity of the Prime Minister, nor upon any of my colleagues in Parliament" I concede, "Though I am happy to admit that the intelligence gathered was not as satisfactory as it should have been, and the planning surrounding the invasion was much the same". More clap. I was glad that my admission was being taken seriously, rather than being met with doubt.

"For the part I played, I am sorry" I say, for I mean it with every fibre of my being, "I won't ask for sympathy, for I don't deserve it. I only ask for understanding". I glance down to where my team stand. A number of them dab at their eyes with tissues. Even Kevin seems to be in the verge of tears. The hostile eyes I had noticed previously elsewhere in the crowd had since been replaced by looks of sympathy. Sympathy. As I had said, I didn't deserve such a thing. Yet they pitied me all the same.

"Do you really mean it? Won't you be sacked over this?" comes a heckler. Some tut at him, others nod. It was a fair question. I wasn't sure how I could further prove my sincerity. "I absolutely mean it" I tell the heckler. I allow myself a small sigh before addressing the second part of the question. No doubt I would receive a scolding from Alastair about this at some point. I found I didn't particularly care. I was glad to have got so much off my chest. Of course, I would always have regrets, but at least I would no longer suffer from nightmares.

"As for my job" I add, head held high, "I don't care".

* * *

"You were tipped for Foreign Secretary". By chance, Andy had been on the same train to London as I. The hours were dragging along, and by now it was more or less clear that the next government was to be a Labour one. We had suffered a number of losses, both to the Tories and the Lib Dems. The humility I had talked of earlier would, perhaps, have to be extended to my entire party.

"I can't say I'm too bothered about promotions" I tell Andy as he and I exit Euston and wait for my car to arrive. Andy shoots me a disbelieving look. "At least not any more. Certainly not at this moment" I offer. I think it was clear to many by now that my career mattered a great deal to me, and any offered promotion, now that I had untangled myself from the Treasury, would almost definitely be accepted. Perhaps my speech in Henley would cost me my role as Defence Secretary, but given the turbulence I had encountered during my time at the Ministry, I supposed I wouldn't be too sorry to lose it.

"Downing Street will be furious" Andy goes on. I sigh and look to him with tired eyes. "No doubt they will" I respond, "They can't persecute me for being honest". Andy raises an eyebrow.

"They can't?" he asks. I consider that and laugh slightly. I turn my eyes towards the road and wait for any sign of my car. The day was still very young, and the sun had yet to come up, and so most of the cars still driving around at this time looked identical. I emit another sigh and rub my head. I could feel a headache coming on. Suddenly, I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders. "Let's try to make this parliament better than the last one" Andy says, smiling kindly. I return his smile most appreciatively. Andy was so delightfully kind. I was glad to have him as a friend, especially on occasions like these.

"Sorry to interrupt" says a voice behind us, "But is that your taxi?". I look to the waiting black cab at the curb, before glancing over my shoulder to see who had spoken. There was something in their voice I recognised, but my growing fatigue clouds my mind somewhat. "Oh, no" I say, rubbing my eyes without even realising it, "Do go on". The person steps out from beneath the shadows of Euston and into the dim light of the street. I almost roll my eyes when I realise who it is.

"I didn't expect to bump into you again here" I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't recognise your voice". I seemed to spend my life bumping into people, especially George it seemed. Whether it be walking past one another in the Conmons or crossing paths elsewhere in London. There were also occasions such as that in Henley the other week. Of all the people in the world.

"I'd imagine my voice is rather croaky by now" George tells me, "You needn't worry, I haven't followed your example and taken up smoking". I raise an eyebrow at him and manage a small smirk. "So you haven't copied me entirely then? What a terrible fan you are" I jest. This time it is George who raises an eyebrow. Through the darkness I recognise the hints of that grin of his appearing on his lips.

"Why, is the mighty Elizabeth Nelson so sorry not to have my lowly devotion?" he mocks, "I am sorry to have disappointed you, my lady". A great chunk of our conversations were taken up by mindless banter such as this. It was all harmless, and I found it cheered me somewhat. "Well, I suppose you are a Tory" I grin, "I doubt the word 'loyalty' is a familiar to you". George's grin is complete again now, and with a grin of my own I wait for his next retort. Andy taps me on the shoulder and clears his throat loudly.

"I'm sorry to interrupt" he says, glancing to George with a small look of recognition, "But our car is here". I look back to the curb and find that it is indeed waiting. "We need to head to head office" I tell George, "I expect I'll run into you again soon". Andy opens the car door and climbs inside, leaving it open for me. "Goodbye" he nods, "Have fun with the new job". I laugh sarcastically and make for the car.

"Prat" I call to him, before slipping inside and shutting the door, leaving George free to take his taxi. We were both headed in different directions, but no doubt some higher power would see fit to throw us together again. I wasn't sorry, in all honestly. If anything, George was able to distract me from whatever problem I was facing. In short bursts, which it often was, it was a very good thing.

"Blimey" Andy breathes with a smile, "You could cut the sexual tension between you two with my mum's meat cleaver". I tut at him and shoot a sharp look in his direction. Our undeniably long history allowed us some room for friendly patter, and perhaps the slight flirtation on occasions. It amounted to nothing.

"Andy Burnham, you may be an MP now" I tell him, "But that does not mean you are exempt from a slap".


	47. The Storm Settles.

**6th May, 2005.**

**Westminster, London.**

Party headquarters was surprisingly serene on the morning of the 6th. We had got through the election with another majority, albeit a smaller one. The loss of seats and the events of our previous term sobered us all up somewhat. I sat in the office of John Prescott, slumped slightly in a chair as I dozily listened to the latest political developments on the radio. John and Jack talked casually about their families. David Miliband snored quietly in another corner of the room. We could rest for now.

I'd received a call from Ed earlier to tell me that he had indeed won his seat. Along with him the other Ed, the annoying one, had also been elected, though with a much smaller majority. I suppose I wasn't one to talk of majorities now. True, mine was still a safe Labour seat, but Rob Campion had come much closer than the press had expected. Quite, there had been some surprise from the BBC after they had shown the result of my count. David Dimbleby had seemed almost amused when he talked to me afterwards.

"Have you heard from Gordon at all?" Jack asks me, eyes drooping slightly as he struggles to stay awake.

"He's on his way from Fife" I answer, harking back to the short conversation I had had with him an hour or two ago. He had been his usual calm self. I could tell it was difficult for him not to mention Tony's position. We had now won our third term, and Tony had made it clear he would not serve a fourth. Gordon's time was coming, and he knew it. I just hoped he would be able to wait just a while longer. Gordon had also spoken to me about the speech I had made in Henley, at my count. He had congratulated me, reassuring me that what I had said regarding Iraq was right, leaving me feeling much more relaxed about my position.

Ah. My position. I was sure Tony had seen my speech, or at the least he had been told about it. Whilst I had pointed out that I did not doubt his integrity, it would no doubt be seen as a criticism of him as well as me. It did sadden me, in all honesty, for we had been on such good terms. I supposed that was merely the consequence for speaking my mind, for speaking from the heart. The chances of Tony rewarding me with a promotion were slim. The chances of me remaining in such a great role were also slim, by my reckoning. Jack seemed more optimistic.

"I've a feeling you'll take my job" he says, to which John had jerked his head. If there was one thing I appreciated in John it was his realism.

"And where are you to go?" I respond, "Why should Tony replace you? You've done a fantastic job". Jack sighs and gives me a small smile.

"I suppose it would be nice for a change" he reasons, "Besides, he might feel I have too much baggage attached to me now". To that I chuckle slightly. Jack had been at the forefront of the Iraq business as much as I had. He had been just as criticised for his involvement as Tony had.

"Between us I think we've got more baggage than the porters of King's Cross" I comment, to which Jack laughs. Our conversation is interrupted by the ringing of John's phone, which he answers with a small sigh. I find myself nodding off slightly as he goes through the usual 'Hello. Yes, yes. Who is speaking? Yes, yes'. No doubt it was another journalist, or party worker. It was a great shame we couldn't unplug the damn things after elections.

"Liz?" John asks, and instantly I open my eyes again. He holds his hand over the phone and speaks to me quietly. "Your husband is in the lobby". I blink at him, before emitting a small groan. My dear husband, come to bless me with his virtuous presence after disappearing to America for a week or two. It was claimed that he had gone for an article, but I suspected it was merely an attempt to escape. It was rather odd to go to America when one was looking for a new home in England. To think I would somehow allow him to continue living in my home was ridiculous.

With an irritated sigh I get to my feet. "Tell him I'm on my way" I say, before making my way over. I don't know why he couldn't have rung, rather than looking for confrontation in public. Of all the times to call by, as well. I was just beginning to settle down again. I didn't think I wanted the stress of him keeping me up for much longer. I'm thankful that the lobby is empty by the time I arrive. The only other person present was the receptionist, who herself seems half asleep. Labour HQ was quiet and content, but I feared quite the spat was about to ensue. As I approach, I ponder on my strategy. Would I try to be civil? Or would I go in for the attack, which I knew I really wanted to? The more reasonable side of my character wanted to be sensible and calm after weeks of campaign and debate.

"Good morning" I greet. Lionel gets to his feet, startled slightly by my sudden appearance. When I had first met him, he was the aspiring city journalist some seven years my senior, eyes bright with curiosity. I could remember how he had sought me out in my constituency, most eager to have a chance to meet me. I could remember the times we had taken tea together, where he had simply allowed me to express my feelings on policy amongst other things. At the time I was struggling with the departure of a partner of six years, the near loss of my father to illness and my increased role in public life. He had been someone whom I could confide in without conflict or challenge. I was selfish in my need for attention back then. I felt a need to be listened to, admired, kissed, held, touched, _loved_. I wondered whether Eva, that blasted woman my brother had been foolish enough to marry, now served the same purpose for him.

"Well done on the victory" Lionel says, "I watched your speech in Henley. It was very good". I nod to him and smile. I had found in the past that pairing a sweet smile with cold eyes was very effective. Indeed, Lionel seemed to be growing paler and paler with each passing moment. "Thank you" I reply, "Did you come in goodwill? Or out of a sense of guilt?". Lionel bows his head.

"I have tried to talk to you about this" he argues. I nod coolly.

"Indeed you have" I reason, "But I fail to see how exactly you can justify yourself". Lionel's shoulders seem to sag slightly, and with sorry eyes he looks at me. "I'm not going to" he tells me, "If I could just explain-". I scoff and cut him off.

"After a tip off from my own ten year old son, I arrive home in the midst of an election to find my husband in bed with my brother's wife" I snap, "I think I have all the explanation I need". Lionel shakes his head, perhaps at his own shame, and looks about the lobby as if for help.

"I'm sorry. I am truly sorry" he says quietly, "I suppose this is it then". I fold my arms and lift my head a little higher. I wouldn't allow my sadness at the idea to show. I doubted I would be broken by our split, given the circumstances, but to say I wouldn't be affected at all would be a lie.

"You're free to frolic with blessed St Eva until you grow tired of one another" I answer sarcastically, "I presume that is what your heart wants". Lionel shakes his head fiercely and looks at me intently.

"I love _you_ " he tells me, to which I emit a loud laugh. The richness of it. From the corner of my eye I see the receptionist at the desk start suddenly. She looks over with curious eyes, before leaning back in her chair again and dozing off. "Clearly" I retort. Suddenly, Lionel's eyes are laced with not just sadness but anger.

"You know, I'll tell you what the problem here is" he states, and I already know I'm not going to like what he has to say, "The fact is that I love you more than you love me. The thing you love most is your career". I tut loudly and shake my head in disbelief.

"Oh, don't bullshit" I snarl, "You know I care for you a great deal". Lionel points an accusing finger in my direction and and furrows his eyebrows. "That's it. You care" he cries, "You care, but you don't love". I roll my eyes at him and turn away for a moment. I glance down at the golden wedding ring on my finger. For ten years it had lived there. This conversation showed me I could quite easily get on with life without it.

"Lionel, whilst you clearly have contempt for vows" I say, "We did in fact marry". Lionel gives a bitter laugh and shakes his head in dismay. Perhaps he was laughing because of how it all ended. "Yes. We did" he says boldly, "And you and I both know the real reason why". I find I freeze suddenly. The look in his eye is an undeniably piercing one, and with some newfound grit he stares deep into my very being. I stare back, finding myself, for once, unable to respond. I look to the floor briefly and find I'm beginning to involuntarily cast my mind back. In come the memories, and in a guilty instant I am reminded of it all.

_A grey morning in London, at some point in the waning weeks of October 1994, in the bedroom of an expensive flat, with the door to the en suite kept open should I need to retreat there again. As I perch solemnly on the side of the bed, I hold in one hand the evidence, whilst the other rests beneath that of Lionel. I remember his voice to be quiet, calm, reassuring. 'I know our arrangement is not a particularly serious one' he had said 'but I need to stand by you over this. I want to'. I had tried to reason with him, tell them he needn't tie himself to me, that I would find a way to manage. Yet he had insisted. 'I'll support you. Help you'. In the end I felt I couldn't turn him down. I would need help. Lord knew it would be difficult without such a thing. And no doubt my family would be reluctant to help me without his commitment. Ever the slaves to tradition, even if they didn't admit it. Lionel was all I had to ensure stability and support in this. I knew I would be better off with him by my side. I knew we both would. Myself, and the child it seemed I was now to have._

I look to my feet sadly, emotion threatening to break me. Nonetheless, I clear my throat and lift my head again, determined to appear strong. "Why did you do it?" I ask, changing the direction of the argument slightly, "What drew you to Eva of all people?". Lionel sighs and runs a hand through his hair. I wasn't trying to be malicious. I was genuinely curious.

"You always seemed to be away, and even when you were at home all you seemed to think about was your work" he explains, "And if it wasn't your work, you were fretting about Alex. Imagine my surprise when I found a woman who was actually interested in me, who was actually willing to give me attention". I narrow my eyes. Was I being made to feel guilty? Lionel knew perfectly well what my job meant to me. He knew I was often very busy. Why my dedication to my job should make me deserving of his behaviour, I didn't know.

"You've always loved your work, and I won't begrudge you of that" Lionel goes on, a more sympathetic look in his eye, "It's just as I say. You will never love me as much as I love you". I study him for a moment, eyes still narrowed. I had an inkling I had gone through this before. Twice in my life I have been made aware of that which Lionel points out, and twice it had cost me a great companion. Clearly I didn't learn. Now I did feel guilty.

"So you slept with this Eva to make yourself feel better" comes a voice. We both look around sharply, only to find the receptionist, now wide awake, looking at us with a most fascinated expression. I raise an eyebrow at her. "She gives you a go, so you feel like you're actually being appreciated" she goes on. Lionel looks to her a bemused expression. "I don't appreciate the interjection" he says, "But you have it right". I shake my head in disbelief and turn back to him. So that was it. I had neglected my husband so much that he had resorted to sleeping with my sister-in-law. What a bizarre life this was. Even if I did feel guilty for apparently ignoring him so much, I refused to take the blame for this whole sorry affair. What was done was done. I didn't think I wanted to try again.

"I don't know what else to say" Lionel sighs, looking to me hopefully. "I think I've heard enough" I reply stiffly.

"But what did the two of you marry for?" the receptionist calls from her desk, "What was all that about?". I shoot her a sharp stare. "Yes, thank you" I snap, and with a sigh she falls quiet again.

"I'm sorry" Lionel says quietly, taking a step forward in my direction. I emit a heavy sigh and look him squarely in the eye. There is sincerity there. I could tell he regretted it all, but I was, perhaps, too cold to pity him greatly. "I'm sorry too" I concede, "But if you think I'm willing to look past this so entirely, you're wrong. It's clear to me that you deserve someone better. Find them". I lean forward and give him one final peck on the cheek.

"Well then" he manages, and I can see there are tears forming in the corners of his eyes, "I guess that's it". I put on a small smile for him and nod. Our argument had begun bitterly, but had somehow ended fairly. I could bear an amicable break up better than a bitter one. It would be fairer for the children as well, of course.

"It is" I state, and now I see the opportunity arises for an exit, "Goodbye, Lionel". And with that, I make my way out of the lobby. I take the stairs this time, mulling around in my own thoughts as I climb higher and higher up the building. I wondered whether Tony was back at Downing Street yet. I wondered whether Gordon had arrived in London yet. I wondered whether Charles and I might meet for tea later in the day. I wondered whether Jack and I would indeed find ourselves in new departments soon. It was a most dramatic sight. The sun was now beginning to rise over the city, and with it came a new day. An incredibly new day indeed.


	48. All Is Well.

**7th May, 2005.**

**Downing Street, London.**

Along I walked, heels clicking along the pavement. My mood light, my body well rested, I make my way down to that famous black door, head held high. Hugging close to that figure the press oh so loved to scrutinise was a green dress that made me feel unbelievably confident. I felt _good_. I had gone to bed the previous night with an entirely different mindset, and so I now felt refreshed. The 6th had been a day for me to _sort things out_. To give closure to things that needed to be closed.

"Do you expect to receive a demotion?" called one of the many waiting journalists from across the street. "Oh, he wouldn't dare" I joke, giving the journalist a wink. I smile at the policeman waiting outside No. 10, and in return he almost beams at me. Before I go inside, I turn and wave to the assembled cameras, as was customary. Once I was satisfied they had their photos, I turned and was allowed inside. Downing Street was once again in the hands of the Blairs, and going by their jubilant expressions, the staff were glad of it. "Good morning, Ms Nelson" one passing person says, smiling to me kindly, "Mr Blair is in his study". I nod and make my way up the staircase of No. 10, passing many faces from times long ago. From poor old Jim Callaghan to dull figure that had been John Major.

"Come in" I here Tony call as I knock on the door of his study. I open it and step inside. Tony rises to his feet and smiles at me warmly. I remove my coat and drape it temporarily over one of the sofas situated in the middle of the room. This was the very study I had sat in when Tony had first invited me to serve as Chief Secretary to the Treasury. Eight years, and the room had remained relatively unchained. But to think of how many different people had come in and out of here, sometimes leaving with promotions, sometimes leaving not so lucky. Again, Tony invited me to sit in the seat I had taken on that memorable day in 1997.

"Well done on the campaign, Tony" I say, "I'm so relieved that it all paid off". Tony nods and smiles fondly. He reaches over to the coffee table before and takes up the tea pot placed there. "You and me both" he replies, "I just hope this parliament is a much brighter one than the last". That I agree with very much. Our last term in government had been greatly overshadowed by what had happened in Iraq. I relished the opportunity to move on from all that.

"Let's aim to make it a good one" I say as Tony passes me a fresh cup of tea, "I suppose you have been made aware of the speech I gave in Henley". Tony nods perfectly calmly, before taking a sip of his tea. I had felt it right to perhaps try and talk to Tony about it, to try and explain, before the Iraq business was put to bed for good. "I watched it" Tony says, "I was very impressed". I raise an eyebrow.

"I thought you might be frustrated by it" I confess, "I was worried I had offended you somewhat". Tony chuckles lightly and gives me a very reassuring look. "I was grateful for it" he admits, and I find myself slightly taken aback, "We all need a kick up the backside every now and then, myself especially". I allow myself a grin.

"Golly. I should criticise my government on national television more often" I joke, to which Tony emits another chuckle. He sets his tea cup down on the coffee table and clears his throat.

"Of course, in light of all that has happened in recent years" he says, tone much more serious now, "I feel I must move you on from Defence". I had been expecting as much. It was generally accepted now that I was to be moved, but where I didn't know. Business, perhaps? I had a good grasp of the subject, given that my father's profession. Or perhaps I might find myself back in the Treasury? I had worked well there, after all.

"I've had some time to think about it" Tony goes on, and with a growing feeling of anticipation I wait, "And I have now concluded that there is but one place I can move you". Perhaps it was to be the Treasury. Whilst Tony had not liked me being so close to Gordon, he at least accepted that we worked well together. There were one or two issues I had regarding the direction of the economy. Perhaps I would be given the chance to attend to them?

"Liz, I want you to be my Foreign Secretary" Tony states. My mind grounds to a halt, and silence falls upon me. I blink at Tony, and with an amused smile he blinks back. Then, the cogs in my brain begin to kick in again, and I find my voice. "Well, I" I mumble, for I feel entirely struck, "I, err".

"You'll take it?" Tony asks.

"Of course I'll take it" I reply, smile spreading on my lips. I react instinctively and lean over to hug him. I had been ready for a demotion. Instead I had been promoted to one of the great offices of state. Foreign Secretary. I could just about wrap my head around it.

"I'm very grateful, you know" I say, thinking nothing of hugging the Prime Minister in this moment. "I know you are" Tony says, "And I know you'll do brilliantly in the job".

I would certainly try. Yes, at times it would no doubt be taxing, but that could be said for all jobs. I was going somewhere entirely new, to work in fields I had never ventured into. The possibilities were great, but this time I was determined to make an absolutely success of it. I didn't want to leave office in a few years time with yet another dark cloud to shelter myself from. I was determined to learn from my mistakes this time, both professionally and personally. Whether or not I would adhere to that determination was another matter, but for now I was allowed to be pleased.

And so, after taking tea with Tony and calling in on Gordon, I left Downing Street that day with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of Elizabeth's story comes to an end!  
> I was planning on continuing the journey in a separate story, but I've now decided that it would be simpler for me to continue with this one!  
> It'll be length, but I prefer it to be in one near piece :)


	49. AUTHOR'S NOTE

Okay, so!

That more or less rounds up the first part of Elizabeth's story.

I did actually start drafting chapters in the second part, 'Red Deeper Still', but, as a sucker for tidiness, I've decided to instead continue with this one.

I've added in this little interlude to make it clear that the first part of her journey has come to an end.

I personally feel it's easier this way, and I'd rather have one incredibly large story than two separate ones.

I wanted to continue because I feel there is much yet to round off. I'd like to challenge Elizabeth in new ways, and what better a challenge than the transfer into opposition!

Thank you all for reading so far :)

Here's to the next leg of the journey.

It will be quite the ride, that I can assure you.


	50. Good Morning from Downing Street.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An election looms, but it doesn't look as though it's to be a good one.

**6th April, 2010.**  
**Downing Street, London.**

  
From a window I watch the prime minister's car pull away. It wasn't unusual to see him leave for the Palace, yet this time his intentions were rather different. Gordon Brown did not depart this place to have his usual weekly audience with the Queen, nor did he depart to attend any kind of official function. Today was the day on which he would ask Her Majesty to dissolve parliament. The time had come for another election, however this time around I feared we were not quite prepared.

  
Much had happened since 2005. I had settled into my role as Foreign Secretary, Tony Blair had retired, Gordon Brown had taken his place. We were doing rather well, trouncing our opposition, now in fact led by my cousin, in the polls. And then came 2008. As a former student of economics, I was slightly disappointed I hadn't seen the crash coming. I had of course warned of the dangers of 'bubbles' (bubbles referring to step increases in asset prices, before a sharp 'pop' as they plummet. By the end of that year, Britain's financial system was in a mess, our banks were in need of bailing out, and our people were losing their jobs at an alarming rate. Amongst the jobless now was my own brother, Nevin, who had sat on the board of RBS at the time. It was rather odd, really, to think the bank had been raking in billions one year and losing billions the next. My brother would survive his sacking. It was ordinary people who deserved to worry.

  
"Deputy Prime Minister?" a voice calls from the door. Ah, yes. Another change. Upon Tony's departure from office, Gordon had appointed me as his Deputy. It was almost like being a manager, usually staying within Downing Street and, shall we say, supervising. Along with Peter Mandelson, now a peer of the realm, I helped to keep government going. I had also helped to keep Gordon's temper under control. The atmosphere in Downing Street was often tense nowadays.

  
"The papers" the voice, which belongs to my secretary, goes on. I move away from the window and glance over the pile of morning editions that had been placed on my desk. The very first was The Daily Mail, its very existence prompting a tut from me. I rolled it up and placed it in the bin, before turning to next paper. The Sun, another tabloid I disliked, particularly now that they no longer backed us. David Cameron would never be as loved by them as Margaret Thatcher had once been, but he was certainly their favourite in this upcoming election. I sigh as I look upon yet another damning headline on their front page. 'Labour on track for election catastrophe'. Alongisde that they showed the results of a recent poll. The Conservative lead grew with each passing day. I give a heavy sigh and sink into my chair, hands resting upon its arms. I look about my office wistfully. In all honesty, I wondered whether I would still be here in a month's time.

  
"Cheer up" I hear Peter speak, "It'll all be over in four weeks or so". I blink at him as he gives me a sly smile. I tap on the pile of newspapers before me and give yet another sigh. I seemed to spend my entire life sighing. Such was the way of public service. "The election hasn't even been formally called yet and we're already losing" I comment. Peter raises an eyebrow, dismissing the headlines I showed him. "My hear, we haven't yet started our campaign" he points out, "Things will change". I look to him with eyebrows raised. I wanted to have every confidence in our party, but I did not feel we were destined for victory. My gut told me we would, perhaps sooner than we would like, find ourselves on the opposition benches once again.

  
"By all means harbour reservations privately" Peter adds, "But I think it would be wise if you don't express them publicly". I scoff at him.

  
"I wouldn't imagine doing otherwise. I've been doing this for eighteen years now" I reply with a wink, "I like to think I have this business mastered". Peter gives me a small smile and slinks away. "You have learnt from the best" he says, before disappearing down the corridor. I didn't query what it was he had left to do. Peter moved about government most quietly. A number of advisors and civil servants had commented that they could often feel his presence. The Prince of Darkness, I had heard him called. An apt name, to which I had laughed initially. My smile had turned to a scowl when I had discovered that my own nickname was apparently now 'Mrs Machiavelli'.

Perhaps there is more to being Deputy Prime Minister in a New Labour government than I let on. The work Peter and I carried out was in no way Machiavellian. Yes, we planned carefully, and tried to ensure that everything ran as best as it could, but we weren't hardened plotters creeping about the shadows. Nor did we intimidate. Gordon had been met with further criticism when one civil servant complained of bullying. Any one who knew Gordon knew that he often snapped. My own temper wasn't much better, though I tried to never shout at any one as he did. I was firm. There was nothing wrong with firmness, surely?

  
I hear a buzzing on my desk, and glance over to see my mobile phone, far slimmer and lighter than those I could remember from my youth, vibrating upon my red box. As was typical, it was often filled with paper work and notes. I usually used it as a stand, however. My phone was safe upon it, unable to be lost amidst the masses of paper that usually collected on my desk. I glance at the screen and see who it was texting me. I often felt like an old woman whenever I talked of 'texting'. Phone calls and faxing used to be the main methods of communication. Now we had SMS and emails. I was thirty-eight now, and still young in body, yet I had the technological insight of someone twice my age.  
'I'd like piano lessons' my daughter, now ten years of age, had simply typed. I raise an eyebrow at the message and roll my eyes. Ever straight to the point, that girl. She probably got that from me.

  
'And I'd like a decent night of sleep, but what is the likelyhood of that' I reply sarcastically. Now that my children were older, I found I could joke. I supposed I was that sort of mother. I stilled spoiled them rather, but I tried not to fuss as I had once done. With Lionel no longer in the picture (though they did of course visit him regularly), I spent a great deal of time with them.

  
'Alex gets to go to Eton, why can't I have piano lessons?'. Eton had been somewhat a political stinker. I hadn't been keen on the idea at first, but the arrival of my Uncle Henry, an old Etonian himself, had altered the situation. Alex was sold on tales of a great old school held up by the best tutors in England and full of the brightest people. It was a good school, I had conceded in the end, and so off to Eton my Alex went. My party hadn't at all liked it, nor had the press, but two years on since his arrival there, Alex himself was enjoying every moment.

  
I at least appreciated the correct use of punctuation in Emily's message, though piano lessons I would have to think about. I was all for enriching the lives of my children, but it was something else for me to pay for and organise, when, knowing Emily, she would lose interest within the first two weeks. 'I'll discuss it with you later' I type, before placing my phone back in its usual spot. Just as I do so, Peter reappears at the door.

  
"Get your shoes on" he says, readjusting his tie, "Gordon is on his way back from the Palace. The Cabinet is to assemble outside so that we're all together for the announcement". He fumbles about in his blazer pockets for something, as I reach under my desk and retrieve my heels. I often took them off when the office, to save myself pain later.

  
"Are you looking for this?" I ask, pulling a piece of folded A4 paper from the pocket of my cardigan. Peter takes it and opens it out, scratching his chin as he reads. "Gordon's statement?" he asks.

  
"You seemed rather busy so I thought I'd throw something together" I smile. Peter looks to me appreciatively and tucks it into his pocket. He moves over to the window briefly and glances out. Through the net curtains I can see press gathering. Peter arches an eyebrow as Cabinet ministers now begin to arrive in time for Gordon's return. "Well if it isn't your new favourite" he says, "Douglas bloody Alexander". I tut at him and settle into my shoes. Douglas Alexander was a minister of reasonable rank, superior to me in years but not in experience. We had worked together on party policy in recent years, and so had spent considerable time together as a result. Cabinets loved to whisper. They were as fond of it as the nearest schoolyard.

  
"I'm afraid, my dear, you have it wrong" I say, buttoning my cardigan up as I prepare to emerge before the press, "He's pleasant enough, I suppose, but my interest extends no further than that". Peter raises an eyebrow in the usual way, and together we leave the office, making our way down the corridors of Downing Street towards the door. In an adjacent room I can see Sadiq Khan and Hilary Benn, two other members of our Cabinet, talking, and beside them I see Yvette Cooper trying to fend off Ed Balls. It seemed our colleagues had already convenened, and so now we waited for Gordon. As we do so, I turn to Peter and offer him a smile.

  
"I shall say this quietly, for fear of seeming unsupportive of Gordon" I say, "But twenty pounds says this all ends in a hung parliament and us in opposition". Peter considers that for a moment, his lips curling ever so slightly into a smile.

"Yes" he replies, shaking my hand discreetly, "I suppose you're on".


	51. Bigoted Women.

**28th April, 2010.**

**London, England.**

Green rooms were often awkward places, I found, especially in the BBC. Here we were, people of entirely different affiliations, thrown together in one place, expected to play nicely until we entered the studio. A small table upon which water and various nibbles sat had been placed in the corner of the room. I suppose food was always a good distraction.

"Not hungry?" Charles Kennedy asks, snacking on something as a technician inspects his make up, "You're a wee young thing as it is". I bat away the brush currently dabbing my face and shoot him a look. True, I was small, but I was also rarely hungry. "I'm not going to waste away just yet" I reply, "Goodness, you're thirsty". I frown at my friend as he gulps down his water. Charles discards the empty cup into a nearby bin and dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Water" he says dismissively, "It's so bland". I give him a stern stare. Charles was clearly thirsty, but not for water. Alcohol. I had tried to help him numerous times to beat his addiction, and he had been improving considerably, yet it still played on his mind.

"But much better for you" I remind him, almost shuddering as I remember the occasions in which I had been forced to scoop Charles off the floor of his apartment. It wasn't s common task, thankfully, but I'd certainly developed too much muscle as a result of it. "I'm doing better, you know" Charles tells me quietly, "I'm improving". I look to him sympathetically and give his hand a small squeeze. "I know you are" I tell him, for it is true. He was a driven man in everything he did. All I could do, as I saw it, was continue supporting him.

"Heads up" Charles says, nodding over to the door, "It's an old friend of yours". I turn my head sharply in the direction of the door and narrow my eyes. I was half expecting George to be standing there, yet the person I find myself locking eyes with on this occasion is Michael Heseltine. He is an aging man now, his once sleek blonde hair turned white. Whilst I had never taken issue with Michael personally, I gathered he had come to resent me somewhat for taking his seat so suddenly all those years ago. "Lord Heseltine" I greet, extending my hand and offering him a smile. He looks hesitant for a moment, but soon shakes it. "Ms Nelson, a pleasure to see you" he says politely, "So first you take my seat, and now it seems you've taken my title". I we find we both chuckle slightly at that. It felt as though it had been a hundred years or so since Michael was Deputy PM himself. It reminded me of how formidable a task taking Henley had been.

"How the years fly by" I reflect, "To think I'll be forty in a couple of years time". I managed to retain a relatively youthful appearance despite my growing age. It certainly gave The Daily Mail something to ponder on.

"You'll be sat in the House of Lords before you know it" Michael says, to which I scoff. It would be nice, undoubtedly, but I couldn't see it coming any time soon. I wasn't ready to retire just yet. "What do you make of your chances against David Cameron, then?" Michael asks, slightest hints of a smirk forming on his lips, "It's a fantastic leader". I jerk my head. Watching him speak at the dispatch box seemed odd, given that I had seen him chop the carrots at family dinners every Christmas for decades. He was undoubtedly talented. And young. I had thought about holding his age against him as a possible future prime minister, but I soon realised it would be terribly hypocritical of me.

"Ah, my dear cousin" I chuckle, "Indeed, he is rather good". Michael raises an eyebrow at me. "Not considering a defection are you?" he asks slyly.

"Oh, you don't need me" I respond, "The Tory Party is stuffed full of middle class tossers as it is". Suddenly, I feel a buzzing in my pocket. That damn phone again. "You'll have to excuse me for a moment" I tell Michael, taking it out and making for the door. I glance upon the screen to find Gordon's name flashing.

"Hello?" I pick up. Instantly I can tell Gordon is in a bad mood. The first sound I hear is a heavy sigh.

"I called a voter bigoted" he blurts.

"What?"

"I called a voter bigoted" Gordon clarifies, "In Rochdale today. My agent thought it a good idea to throw me together with some local woman. And I called her bigoted". I raise an eyebrow, worry setting in slightly. I could only imagine the scene. I certainly hoped there was more to this story. It wouldn't be particularly acceptable for the Prime Minister to insult random members of the electorate.

"Not to her face, I hope" I say, gritting my teeth. I wasn't sure which was worse. Insulting a voter to their face, or being caught doing it behind their back. "I left my microphone on in the car" Gordon tells me angrily, "She was bloody awful, Liz". I sigh and run a hand through my hair. Forgotten microphones often were the bane of politicians. Given all that was reported by the press regarding Gordon's temper, this was not helpful.

"Right. Well" I say, slightly unsure of what comfort to offer, "Gordon, it's fine-".

"It's not fucking fine" Gordon roars, and I find I have to move my phone away from my ear to protect my ears, "This is going to make me look awful-".

"It will be fine" I snap, cutting him off. There is a moment of silence as Gordon regains his composure. I had really learnt how to deal with angry Gordon Brown during my time at the Treasury. The rampages could be contained if one knew how. "Have you apologised?" I ask.

"I put out a statement" Gordon answers, to which I tut. I would have to look into it, but this woman would no doubt be very offended by what Gordon had said. Of course, if Gordon said she was bigoted, I would assume her to be bigoted, but deserved a proper apology all the same. "Go back to Rochdale and give your apology face to face" I state. Gordon almost hisses.

"Face to face?" he growls, "If I see her once more, I think I may say something even worse than-". Like a mother, I had to be firm as well as kind.

"Go and see her, preferably as soon as possible" I instruct, "I'm not suggesting that you kneel down before her and beg for forgiveness. Just give her an honest, sincere apology". Gordon sighs and grumbles for a moment under his breath.

"Fine" he concedes, "Good bye". And with that, he hangs up. I shake my head at my phone before slipping it back into my pocket. As I turn to enter the Green Room once more, I find Michael standing in the doorway.

"The children running riot again?" He asks with a small smirk. "Oh certainly not" I smile, "Ours are well behaved".


	52. Don't Forget To Smile.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon is suffering from pre-debate nerves; and Elizabeth is having none of it.

**29th April, 2010.**

**Birmingham, England**.

"Do you think I look too powdered?". Gordon turns way from the mirror in his dressing room and looks to Peter and I hesitantly. "Well" Peter offers, looking most unsure, "We can't have you glinting". I snort quietly despite myself.

"We don't want your forehead shining like a Belisha beacon as David's does" I comment. Peter chuckles lightly, but Gordon raises an eyebrow. He turns back to the mirror and begins to pat as his cheeks, as if trying to remove some of the make up that had been caked on his face. "I didn't realise you were on first name terms with Cameron" he says, to which I roll my eyes.

"For the final time, Gordon, we're family" I remind him, somewhat impatiently, "Just because you hate him, there's no reason why I should". Gordon scoffs and begins to straight his suit out before he emerged into the stage. Tonight, another debate was being held, the last of this election. Gordon had faired reasonably well in the others, but nerves had hit him by now. For quite some minutes, he had been pacing the room grumbling to himself.

"If you're planning on defecting" Gordon bites, "Do so by all means-". I give him a dismissive look and get to my feet. "You're being utterly ridiculous" I snap, "You know, Peter and I have stood by you for years, Gordon, years. Please don't try and alienate what true allies you have left". With that, I huff and make for the door. Peter rubs his temple wearily and glances at his watch, as if waiting for this entire affair to end. Gordon looks over to me as I go to leave, guilt filling his eyes. "Where are you going?" he ask. I take my coat from the stand near the door and drape it over my arm. "Outside" I tell him, very much in need of a stress reliever, "I need a cigarette".

The corridors of the studio were teaming with staff. I managed to squeeze my way through and find a door out to the back. It wasn't a glamorous setting, what with the bins being placed out here, but it would do. I perch down on a set of steps and rummage about in my coat pocket, pulling out the half-empty packet I had left. I sit there quietly for a moment, my stress levels stabilising with each puff. Of course, smoking was not at all a healthy habit, but at times of great pressure it was a helpful one.

"Oh, sorry" I hear a voice behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Nick Clegg has emerged from the back entrance. My left eyebrow raises involuntarily. Here stood the new star of the show. St Nicholas, surprisingly influential given the Liberal Democrats' lack of influence these days. I had never felt them to be the same since Charles had resigned from the leadership. This Nick chap was alright, I supposed.

"Not at all" I say, offering him a smile, "I'm grateful to be in the presence of the new Churchill". Nick shifts about on his feet somewhat uncomfortably and scratches the back of his head. "Jealousy isn't a very attractive trait". I raise an eyebrow and scoff.

"Nor is populism, but there we are" I quip, "Don't linger, man, by all means sit down". Nick does as instructed and sits on the step beside me. I had spotted him standing outside parliament smoking on a number of occasions, and so I offer him a cigarette. "Thank you" he says, taking one, "I need this. I'm rather nervous".

"And of whom are you nervous?" I ask coolly, "David or Gordon?". Opinion polling had put Nick before the both of them after the first debate. It was difficult to judge which leader Nick saw the most threat in.

"Neither, I suppose" he confesses, twiddling his cigarette between his fingers, "I'm not nervous of people, so much. I'm just hoping I do okay tonight". I jerk my head.

"Well, you seem to have done very well so far" I comment, glancing about my surroundings with little interest. From the corner of my eye, I can see Nick looking to me with the faintest hints of a smirk on his lips. Insufferable fool.

"A fair compliment" he says, "For you". To that, I look at him sharply, cool green eyes studying him. "I may not be a liberal" I reply, "But I'm not entirely without heart". Nick raises an eyebrow.

"News to some" he mutters, going in for another puff of his cigarette. I'm rather tempted to bat it away from his lips. "We're politicians" I remark, "Excessive displays of feeling aren't our forte". Nick's eyebrows furrow now, and with a thoughtful expression he looks to me once more. "Showing any feeling at all would be an improvement for us" he says, "I suspect that is why so many have flocked to the Liberal Democrats". True, the Lib Dems had never been so popular, but I doubted it would last. Fads such as this rarely did. Many were most hysterical about Nick, but the chances of so many actually voting Liberal Democrat were slim.

"I suppose we'll have to see what the voters think of your poor bleeding heart" I respond, getting to my feet, "Farwell, Clegg". And with that, I make for the door, leaving him to ponder. I found I wasn't really jealous of his success, only sceptical. I had been, for some months, been predicting a hung parliament. The chances were that Nick would have quite the part to play in that.

I called back in the dressing room, but found it empty. Glancing at my watch, I realise that it is now just ten minutes until air time. Leaving my coat in there, I turn back and struggle once more through the tide of technicians. I am most grateful to reach the open space of the studio. The audience had not yet taken their seats, and so the only people present were a handful of staff and the debate's host, David Dimbleby. And people of red and blue, of course.

In the usual way, three lecterns had been set out, each illuminated with a different colour. Around the yellow tinted one stood Danny Alexander, a plain fellow of the same area of Scotland as I, David Laws, a reasonable type whom I had once mistaken for a Tory, and Paddy Ashdown, now in his senior years but as fiesty as ever. I nod to Paddy, and he nods back. We had past form, after all. I thought it a great shame that Charles wasn't present.

"Have you calmed down now?" Peter asks as I approach, hand curling over the Labour lectern protectively. I look over to where Gordon stands chatting to Dimbleby. "More to the point" I say, "Has he?". Peter sighs.

"You know how agitated he can get" he reasons, "He's terribly stressed. He had been ever since the crash. Political and economic pressures had taken their toll. Sometimes I feared he would collapse all together. "It's a great shame" I say quietly, "Given how hard he tries". Peter looks across to his old friend with sympathetic eyes. Even the dark Lord Mandelson felt for him.

"Heads up" he whispers, suddenly distracted by three figures emerging into the studio floor, "The gang are here". I glance over to see who it was. Predictably, the 'gang' Peter referred to were in fact the Conservatives. At the front is David, still very much fresh-faced but with the hints of dark rings around his eyes. He offers me a small smile when he notices me, which I feel I can only return. As I had pointed out to Gordon and my colleagues, we were family. Despite the growing bags under his eyes, David looked about the studio with the upmost enthusiasm. There was life a plenty in him tonight, and we would have to do our upmost best to quell him.

Over David's left shoulder I see William Hague, once again finding himself at the front of Tory politics. He was a decent man, but not one I was overly fond of. Beside William stands the usual suspect. George Osborne, now shadow chancellor at the politically tender age of thirty-eight, due to reach thirty-nine next month. I had first met him almost twenty years ago, and, perhaps remarkably, hadn't changed a great deal since that time. His hair wasn't as curly as it had been, but retained its thickness. He still managed to retain the same air of awkwardness he had exuded all those years ago. The way George stood there in this this studio reminded me very much of the gangly boy I had met so long ago.

"What do you think of our chances tonight?" Peter queries quietly, observing the opposition from afar, "They seemed to have renewed confidence". Gordon's gaffe in Rochdale had given them something to chuckle about. It had also given them another lead in the polls, but that I would have to overlook. "Gordon had the experience, the moral centre" I assess fairly, "My cousin, for as lovely as he is, can't simply talk his way through things with sound bites". Ever fond of a catchphrase, was David.

"He's just a boy in comparison to Gordon" Peter muses. I frown at him.

"Come now, Peter" I reply, "We were all the fresh faces once". I was also tempted to point out that I was younger than David, but I saw the point that Peter was trying to make. "Oh dear, Boy George approaches" he mutters. I glance over to see that George was indeed approaching. Which of us he wanted to speak with, I didn't know. At the last debate, Peter had rather cruelly poked fun at him in the spin room. I had told him off, and so now Peter resorted to simply staying away.

"Where are you going?" I ask Peter as he begins to slink away. He seems to have his steely sights set on Gordon now, and I wonder whether he was intending on having one final word with him before the debate began. "I'm going to reinforce the lines" Peter tells me, to which I roll my eyes. The 'Bigotgate' incident had made communications paranoid.

"The Prince of Darkness is on the prowl" George says with an amused expression, judging Peter from afar as he converses with Gordon in hushed tones. "How else is a prince of darkness to get around?" I ponder jokingly, "He still calls you Boy George, you know". George doesn't seem at all fazed. I don't expect him to be. It was a rather silly nickname, in my opinion.

"I can live with that. Age is a problem that corrects itself naturally" George replies calmly, "I'd sooner be Boy George than Mrs Machiavelli, by any account". I fix him with a disapproving stare as he grins in the usual boyish fashion.

"Don't you start" I warn. George laughs and studies me as I stand beside the Labour lectern provided. "It suits you" he comments, prompting a scoff from me, "Though I must say you would look quite the natural behind the blue lectern over there". He nods to where David now prepared himself. "Not bloody likely" I retort, "Oh dear, have you so little faith in your leader?". It was meant entirely as a joke, for I was well aware of just how close the two were. Some liked to compare them to Gordon and Tony, but I knew they got along much better than Gordon and Tony ever had.

"Don't be a hypocrite" George snipes with a smirk. I narrow my eyes at him. I wondered what his reaction might be to the bet Peter and I had made at the start of the election. "You seem to think you can read me" I laugh. George raises an eyebrow at me. "I know I can" he retorts bluntly, dark eyes familiar. I avert my own and look over to where David Dimbleby stood, gathering his notes in preparation.

"If the leaders could take their positions please" he calls out, "The audience are coming in any moment now". I sensed it was time to we lackeys to disappear. Gordon brushes past us, curtly nodding at George before taking his place at the red lectern. I say my last words of encouragement and pat him on the shoulder. Then, along with other political figures lurking about the studio, I make my way out and towards the spin room.

"Are you going to manage being away from David for so long?" I mock. George giggles slightly and gives me a nudge. "I'll just bother you for the entirety of the debate" he states with a grin.

"No you bloody well won't" I reply, batting his hand away, "You may be somewhat taller than me, but I can still find a way to slap you". George looks at me with a disbelieving expression, before chuckling suddenly.

"Say, what words of comfort did you offer the prime minister just now?" he asks. I dismiss the mockery in his voice and jerk my head. "Be honest, stay calm" I tell him, citing the usual generic advice one gave at these moments, "Don't call anyone a bigot".

"Most wise" George observes.

"And of course, the most important thing" I add, recalling too many of Gordon's grimaces and scowls, "Don't forget to smile".


	53. The Joy of Taxes.

**1st May, 2010.**

**Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I had always found it refreshing to return to my constituency after days away elsewhere. I had travelled the country, but no place was ever quite as lovely as Oxford. Nevin, my increasingly present elder brother, didn't seem to agree. His heart was well and truly split between London and Scotland. He paces about my kitchen as I sit at the table putting one or two finishing touches to a speech. "Are you trying to wear the floorboards out?" I quip. Nevin stops his movement for a moment, before resuming and stroking the small beard he insisted on keeping thoughtfully.

"I'm worried" he admits. I raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh really? I could barely tell" I retort, to which he shoots me another dismissive look. I'm grateful when he finally sits down. "A friend of mine has told me something rather pressing" he explains, "A Telegraph article is to be published...about me". I look up from my speech and frown. The only publication Nevin had ever heavily featured in was Tatler. Even then, all that was ever reported in there was who he happened to be hanging around with at the time. "What about exactly?" I ask, somewhat puzzled, "I'm presuming it isn't going to be particularly complimentary". Nevin sighs and runs his wrinkling temple.

"I'm told it's to be rather damning" he says, "I'm unaware of the specifics, but from what I've been told it seems the piece is to focus on what a dreadful, drunken capitalist lickspittle I am". I scoff at that description. Imagine the Telegraph taking issue with a capitalist. In all honesty, it sounded like the sort of sordid, pathetic piece the Daily Mail would publish. Some grand take of scandal and sleaze, released with the aim of ruin. Nevin no longer had a job to be sacked from, so it seemed the Telegraph's source would be disappointed.

"You know, of course, who is behind it all?" Nevin adds, a sad smile forming on his lips. It was a smile that was all too common for him these days. He seemed prone to bad moods. I did worry for him, and even more so for his daughter. The unhappiness felt between poor Catherine's now divorced parents had not given her the best start in life.

"I'm not sure I do" I reply. Nevin looks to me with weary eyes. He didn't open his mouth, and after a few seconds I realise he didn't have to. Eva. Eva bloody Smith, the foul woman who had proved a most unwelcome addition to our family, ending not just her own marriage, but mine.

"She is a dreadful woman" I hiss, angered by the thought of her, "I do wish she'd disappear".

"You're not the only one" Nevin says, getting to his feet again, "Still, I'll survive. I thought I might go shooting tomorrow, to take my mind off things. You could always join me". I study him from where I sit, tapping my pen on the table. He was stressed, I suppose. Still, given that there was an election going on, I'd have thought it fairly obvious that I was working. "It's not as though I've anything important to do" I reply, gesturing to the speech before me. Nevin raises and eyebrow and crosses his arm. I could tell his Conservative senses were now tingling.

"What is it to be about, then?" he asks, narrowing his eyes sceptically. I look back to my work, eyes scanning each sentence for errors in grammar, or areas in need of improving. Writing speeches was common practice for me by now, but I always ended up spending far too time on them. "Tax" I tell him, pen scribbling away as I leave a few notes for myself, "Everyone's favourite subject".

"I suppose its to be more of them from now on" Nevin comments disapprovingly, "Heaven forbid there be any other way of raising money in Labour's books". I sigh and brush him off. I was used to this kind of comment. Nothing was meant by it, but it irritated me all the same. "You speak as though I like it" I reply. Instantly I can sense Nevin smirking. "Disagreeing with key party policy?" he grins, "My my. Labour really are in trouble". I shoot him a tired look and try to ignore his smugness. I try to stay silent as he continues to make snide comments about my party's handling of things, particularly the economy. Criticisms were fair, given all that had happened.

"Can I tell you something?" I ask, suddenly feeling the need to speak my mind. Nevin stops his muttering and nods, expression softening suddenly. I was grateful for that, at least. "I feel we've changed, as a party, and I fear not in a good way" I admit, and indeed I find it difficult to do so openly, "In 1997, we were a fresh, progressive party that promised to do things differently. We were open to business, and tough where we needed to be". I glance down at the speech I had yet to perfect, glancing over my own words feeling somewhat lost. Tax policy wasn't the most joyful subject as it was, but it was even more unbearable when you didn't truly believe in it.

"I read this, and I struggle to believe that this is New Labour at all" I go on, growing in confidence the more I say, "I love Gordon a great deal, and think he's a fine leader, but I don't at all like the direction the party is taking". Nevin listens understandingly and nods.

"I'm afraid the New Labour days are over" he tells me, and I suppose he's right, "What will you do? Carry on speaking words you don't believe in?". I laugh despite myself. I knew exactly what he was suggesting.

"Do you suggest I rebel and cause a media storm?" I ask. Nevin smiles and shakes his head most vigorously. He takes my speech from in front of me and studies it for a moment. "No" he says, "I suggest you just be honest". With that, he tears the paper in two. I launch myself to me feet, a gasp lingering on my lips, but as my brother sets the remains of the speech down on the counter behind him, I realise that he was right.

The last time I criticised my own party publicly was in 2005, after I admitted my shame over the Iraq war. It had paid off. I had managed to regain the respect of many of my peers and impress Tony so much that he promoted me to the office of Foreign Secretary. Of course, there was no counting on Gordon being quite so calm. His temper was a frightfully frail thing these days. "Well, I shall have to bear the storm then" I state, reaching across the table to seize my notebook. I tore myself a new sheet of paper and took up my pen once more. "What are you doing?" Nevin asks, perhaps curious at to whether I was simply rewriting the piece he had kindly tore up. Already I find myself a good two or three sentences in to the new version. My heart was at least in this one.

"Why" I say, pen scratching away as I think of yet more points I wanted to make on that oh so joyous topic of tax, "I'm being honest".


	54. A Kick up the Backside.

**2nd May, 2010.**

**London, England.**

A newspaper is slapped down on the table before me. Here I sit, as though on the verge of an interrogation, at the end of a rather long table in a board room at HQ. I am joined by the usual suspects. Peter, both Eds, David Miliband, Douglas Alexander, Harriet Harman. Alastair Campbell stands behind my chair with his arms crossed. "Happy?" he asks impatiently. I glance down at the paper in front of me and raise an eyebrow. "NELSON SLATES BROWN". A photograph of me mid-speech was featured alongside the headline. I roll my eyes and push it away with a sigh.

"Well they at least got my good side" I joke. Alastair grumbles, but I can hear my peers tittering. "Do you not understand how serious this is?" David, perhaps my least favourite Miliband, pipes up, "You contradicted party policy in public, four days out from a general election". I narrow my eyes at him from across the table.

"You're right, I should have kept my mouth shut and grumbled in private like everyone else" I shoot back. Miliband's nostrils flair. Angering him was often quite amusing, but on the occasion I was too focused on my own frustration to laugh. "Do you have to be a such a snarky shit all the time?" he blurts, to which I can only scoff. Many around the table now look between one another nervously. I wondered whether Alastair would intervene, but I sensed he was still quietly fuming behind my chair.

I take back the newspaper on the table and flick through it briefly. The editorial of The Guardian was often printed in the same place, and so it didn't take me long to find the desired piece. I flatten the page out and hold it up for my colleagues to see. "Shall I tell you what serious is?" I tell the room, "Serious is when The Guardian, formerly great supporters of our party, throws its weight behind the Liberal Democrats". I push the editorial across the table in the direction of Ed (my Ed, of course). The others watch him as he scans the page.

"They've lost faith in us" he says sadly, sagging slightly in his chair, "They say Nick Clegg is the real progressive in this election". They were harsh words, but unsurprising ones. I felt somewhat vindicated by them, having predicted this kind of fall out for quite some time. The only thing that stopped me from saying 'I told you so' was the thought of Gordon.

"We've lost touch. We hold less credibility by the day" I state clearly, "Don't negate me for speaking sense". I had, as my brother had advised, spoken from the heart in that now infamous speech. It was well received, just not from within my party.

"Whether it was sense or not" Alastair interjects, "It's still a sign of dissension". I sigh and lean back in my seat. I could see I was being cornered here.

"I need you to stay quiet for the remainder of the election" Alastair instructs. I whip my head around in his direction and give him a sharp glare. "I beg your pardon?" I snap, "After all these years, have you learnt nothing about me?". Alastair and I had had many an argument since we first met. We were Tony's red-headed firebrands, regularly sparring off one another on policy and delivery. I had thought Alastair had learnt that I wasn't the sort who could be pigeonholed.

"Come now, Alastair" Ed says, coming to my aid, "That's not entirely fair. Liz gets along very well with voters. We need her on the front lines". I smile to him appreciatively. Alastair considers this for a moment, and is about to open his mouth to speak again when he is interrupted.

"Don't forget she is also our Deputy Prime Minister" Douglas Alexander chirps, looking to me with soft eyes, "A strong woman". I roll my eyes at that particular comment. Douglas was pleasant, but he could be quite the slimy fool at times. I often wished he would focus his affections elsewhere.

"If there is one thing Liz has never failed to do" Peter says, as serene as ever, "It's giving us a well-needed kick up the backside".

* * *

 

"Thank you for defending me in there" I say to Ed as we leave the room, "I'm grateful". Ed smiles at me kindly.

"The others were too frightened to say anything, I suspect" he replies. I raise an eyebrow and glance behind me for any sign of Alastair.

"You know Alastair loves to keep everyone in shape" I comment, well acquainted with his need to keep the troops in line, "I shan't apologise, you know". Ed sighs quietly.

"You've nothing to apologise for, really. Peter was right. We need a kick up the arse sometimes" he concedes, and for that I am grateful, "Though, I do think perhaps future criticisms might best be delivered in, well-". I frown at him. Ed narrows his eyes as he gazes off in no particular direction, thoughtful, as if he was searching for the right word. Or perhaps the most delicate word.

"A softer way" Ed manages, and I simply blink at him, "So that the press can't accuse you of lambasting anyone". I consider it. Perhaps it would be right for me to be gentler. I hadn't gone in all guns blazing during my speech; that wasn't my style. I had been clear about my opinions, however, and I supposed that might be mistaken for brashness. "You know, I made one mention of Gordon in that speech, and that was only to praise him" I tell my friend, "It was about tax, for goodness sake. I merely made the point that we should consider other ways of sorting the economy out". As always, the press had no issues with misinterpretation. The more trouble that caused, the better.

Ed starts to chuckle to himself quite suddenly. "What is it?" I ask, curious as to what had tickled him so. Ed grins in that usual goofy way, but there is seriousness in his eyes. "I was just thinking" he tells me, "Only four days to go". I find myself laughing now. What long, arduous things elections were. A week was a long time in politics, as I was always told. Elections seemed to go on for an age.

"God, I could do with a break from it all" I groan, making my way through the building alongside Ed somewhat sleepily, "I feel as though I haven't had fun in a millennia". Fun. What a possibility. I enjoyed my work, most of the time, but it wasn't particularly gripping. There were only so many factories and small businesses one could visit before they all begin to morph.

"Say, The Times are throwing an election party tomorrow night" Ed suggests, "It's open invitation to any one that matters, really. Justine and I are going, so why don't you come too?". I think on it. I wondered whether it would provide me with the excitement I looked for. Parties, particularly parties in my circle, were usually very interesting indeed.

"Yes" I respond, "I think I might". Ed nudges me with his elbow and attempts a wink. "You could bring Douglas Alexander with you" he jokes, "I'm sure it would make his year". I roll my eyes at him and tut.

"My dear, I'd sooner be accompanied by a goldfish".

 


	55. Animals.

**3rd May, 2010.**

**Spencer House, London.**

It was perhaps a brave idea of The Times to throw together so many different types of journalist and politician. They mixed far better than you might expect, though I presumed that was due to alcohol and a dedication to courtesy. We couldn't have any fights breaking out here, could we?

Some, I'd imagine, like to believe that parties such as this are sources of great discussion. Such thoughts are as feasible as the Bogey Man. Whilst alcohol did mean a more amicable environment, it did degrade conversation rather.

"I'm an elephant" Robert Peston slurs, waving his arm about before his face like a trunk. "Of course you are, Robert" I say, as though to a child. I glance down at the wine glass in my hand and wonder what animal its contents would turn me into. Only four glasses had been emptied by me so far this evening. It would take quite a long more before I would be able to join Robert at his imagined watering hole.

"I say" I hear Boris Johnson, another elephant, mumble behind me. I groan quietly and prepare myself. He usually lurked about at parties such as this, entirely off his face. In all honesty, he seemed drunk on most occasions. "That is a most fitting dress, Elizabeth" Boris goes on, plodding around to face me. He looks me up and down, vision clearly rather hazy. I snap my fingers in his face when I notice his eyes focusing on my chest. "On your first glass, Boris?" I swipe. Boris shakes his ridiculous blonde mop in disagreement.

"Nonsense, nonsense" he proclaims, "I'm a trooper, through and through. Like Churchill, I will stand throughout-". His voice trails off as he begins to lean rather perilously forward. "Tally ho" he mutters, before keeling over onto the floor. There is a small thud, and I am left to stand beside his lump of a form. I would have felt awkward had I not been so tempted to laugh.

"It's a pathetic sight, isn't it?" Justine, Ed's rather lovely girlfriend, sighs, observing the now sleeping Boris with contempt. "He should be used to it by now" I reply, knowing it to be a common occurrence at events such as these, "At least asleep he isn't able to cause any trouble". Justine raises an eyebrow and smirks. "All of the women here seem too decent to have it away with someone like Boris" she comments. I had never understood why Boris was so successful with the opposite sex. True, he could be witty at times, but he was far from a charmer. Perhaps I was simply blinded by the contempt I held for him.

"Who knows whether he'll just stick to the women?" I joke, "Ed had better be careful". Justine laughs, drawing attention from surrounding guests. I try, and fail, to suppress my own giggles as I imagine Boris attempting to flirt with Ed. It was an image both horrifying and hilarious. "What's tickled you two?" Ed asks, joining us with a cardboard cup in his hand. Justine and I continue to laugh when we look at him. After a few moments of wheezing, we regain our composure.

"Say, that's an unusual glass" I say, nodding to Ed's cup, "You're not drinking coffee?". Ed blinks at me, a most innocent look in his eye. "I'm driving" he defends, "I want Justine to be safe. Especially considering-". He cuts himself off and takes his girlfriends hand in his own suddenly. I find even my stone cold heart melts at the way he beams down at her. "We're going to have a baby" Ed tells me, smile as wide and goofy as ever.

"Oh my!" I exclaim, not caring who heard me, "Congratulations!". I embrace them both warmly, finding myself gushing slightly. I was usually far more restrained than this, but Ed's announcement had truly made me very happy. "Gosh, that really has cheered me up" I sigh contently.

"Liz was rather angry with the party" Ed explains to Justine, "With our fortunes the way they are, we could do with some good news". I nod to that. Thoughts about opinion polls and policy had, for now, washed away.

"Have you anything to announce, Liz?" Justine asks kindly, "Any new suitors?". I scoff at that and take another sip of my wine. I would have to retreat back to the bar again soon. The evening was far from done, after all. "Oh, no" I reply, "I dabble". I wink, and Justine laughs behind her hand.

"George Osborne is here, you know" Ed tells me, with an uncharacteristically mischievious smile. I scoff and narrow my eyes at him. "You are cruel" I retort, giving him a very light slap on the cheek, "Excuse me, I'm going to fetch another glass". I fight my way through the swathes of guests gathered towards the bar. Some give drunken 'hello's, whilst others grin stupidly. Alcohol rarely had such a numbing effect on me.

I finally manage to squeeze my way through to the bar and request another glass of the red I had been enjoying. "Deputy Prime Minister?" the bartender asks. I nod and raise an eyebrow at him. "Sorry, it's just that someone rang earlier asking for you" he goes on. "Who?" I query. The man withdraws a crumpled post it note from his pocket and hands it to me. A name is written on it. Lady Maria Nelson. "My mother?" I frown, "What did she want?".

"She said something about your dad being ill" the bartender explains, "Nothing serious, she said, but he was going to hospital anyway". I sigh and look up at the clock fixed nearby. 8:30pm. Still so early in the evening. I glance back to where Ed and Justine stand, chatting casually, looking very much like a pair of antelope surrounded by a menagerie of loud and boisterous apes and cats. There were a range of different people I could converse with, taking me away from the troubles I usually faced.

"Do you want me to call back?" the bartender asks. I emit another sigh and shake my head. "No, no" I tell him, "I'll call her in the morning. Thank you". The bartender nods, before retreating to perform one of his other tasks. I take up my wine and have a quiet sip, feeling a great sense of internal bemusement as I observe the zoo before me. "I can't say I've seen the Education Secretary do the robot before" an amused voice remarks from beside me. I giggle at my cabinet colleague's dancing.

"Are you not tempted to join in, George?" I retort. The Tory laughs and jerks his head. "There is in fact a sequinned shirt beneath all this" he jests, gesturing to his particularly smart black tie and jacket. "You should audition for Strictly Come Dancing" I suggest.

"Let's see how the election goes, shall we?" George says, "You look very nice this evening, by the way". I roll my eyes at him, as I always had done whenever he had complimented me in times past. "I enjoyed your tax speech" George goes on, and now I smile at him, "It was very candid".

"Lower tax rates for ordinary people, lower corporation tax rates to attract business" I detail casually, "Extra tax contributions from the very rich. There are but simple propositions". George raises an eyebrow at me and grins cheekily. "Yet not simple enough for your boss" he says.

"Gordon agrees with me" I enforce, "I'm sure he does". George is smirking now. I simply glare. "Yet party policy remains unchanged" he reminds me, "I feel sorry for you". To that I scoff.

"Spare me your pity" I rebuff, keeping my tone light, "I've managed for sixteen years without it, you know". Sixteen years. I found myself suddenly feeling old. I'm tempted to start feeling about my forehead for wrinkles.

I glance to George for a reaction. He stares off at nothing in particular, looking incredibly pensive. He turns snaps out of his apparent daze and turns to me quickly. "Liz-".

"George!". A loud voice calls out. We both turn our heads to see a man of reasonable height and weight approaching, half-empty wine glass in hand. I recognise him to be William Lewis, the fair and often charming editor of The Telegraph.

"Ah, William" George says, shaking the man's hand, "You're looking well". His tone is a very polite one, but his body language suggests he wasn't grateful for the interruption. Whatever it was George had wanted to say could wait. I doubted it was an important revelation. Another of his usual quips, perhaps?

"Much to print, much to write" William says brightly, before turning to me, "Ms Nelson, a pleasure as always". I roll my eyes when he kisses my hand. I did say he was often charming.

"How are things at the Telegraph?" George asks, somewhat stiffly. William nods and takes a swig of his drink. "Good. Very good, in fact" he answers, "This election had allowed us quite the gossip". That it had. It's then that I suddenly remember Nevin, and the worries he had felt earlier in the week. I sense my moment and jump in before the conversation can move on.

"Say, might I talk to you about something?" I ask, "I may as well ambush you while I have the chance". William grins. His weren't as splendidly boyish as George's, but they were still somewhat mischievous. "That sounds rather inviting" William jokes, "Ambush away". George clears his throat.

"If you'll excuse me" he states, nodding to the two of us courteously and walking away towards the hoardes of guests before us. "Perhaps we'll speak again later" I suggest, to which he turns and offers me a small smile.

"I hope I didn't interrupt something" William says, eyes darting between the two of us. George had by now disappeared amongst the other guests. I did wonder what sarcastic remark he had been ready to make before he had been interrupted.

"Not at all" I say, "I'm all yours".

"Come now, don't make a man blush" William replies, "Now what is this great matter you wished to talk to me about?". I clear my throat and lower my tone. Even with the hubbub of the party in the background, I wouldn't risk being overheard.

"I understand your paper is soon to publish a particularly damning article about my brother" I tell him. William studies me momentarily before taking another swig of his wine.

"You understand correctly" he says, "His ex-wife came to us promising all sorts of sleaze and intrigue. Tory banker with a connection to the Financial Crisis knocks up his secretary. How could we refuse?". William was a journalist, I supposed. Creatures of the press lived for 'sleaze and intrigue'. Still, I had to try.

"You understand this could be very damaging for him, especially seeing as he's not in the best emotional state at the moment" I argue. William continues to study me, registering my objections.

"It may also have implications for me" I add rather cheekily, "You'll take pity on me at least, won't you?". William chuckles. He folds his arms and shakes his head.

"You want me to pull the story" he titters. I fix him with a piercing green stare and smile as sweetly as I can. It was a perfect combination for any one wanting to get their own way, I'd always found. It seemed to have worked on William, for he began to concede.

"What will I get in return?" he queries. I arch an eyebrow at him. "My gratitude?" I offer jokingly. The mischief returns in the editor's grin now. "Anything else?" he asks. I pass my now empty wine glass to him and wink.

"Fetch me another drink and perhaps you'll find out".


	56. Debate.

**4th May, 2010.**

**Henley, Oxfordshire.**

"I think you're wrong". I couldn't criticise my opponent for being straight forward. I can't help but titter quietly at the bluntness of his reply. Indeed, many in the audience seemed to be sporting amused smiles. "That's nice for you, Nigel" I mutter wearily. Debates such as this were not unusual during election periods. Indeed, I had called for this particular one to take place in my own constituency . Involved were all the usual colours. Perhaps unfortunately, the organisers of the event had decided to also invite Nigel Farage, the leader of the relatively insignificant band of angry folk that were UKIP.

"We're effectively faced with an open border" Farage states, "We can't manage the numbers, and your government has done absolutely nothing to alleviate this". I had emitted a sigh when the topic of immigration had arisen. True, it was an important one, but one that too often provoked argument rather than sensible debate. "I make no attempt to belittle the problems caused by increasing immigration levels" I respond, feeling fairly tired of my opponent's slightly irate babbling, "But I don't at all approve of shutting down the system, something which would delight UKIP no doubt".

"You're being silly" Farage dismisses, to which I scoff audibly, "I have nothing against immigrants-".

"Clearly" I quip, prompting laughter from the audience. I suspected they were as fed up of Mr Farage as I was. It was the poison in his words that incensed me so. There was bitterness in his voice that could not be disguised. Odd for a man married to a foreigner, one might say.

"UKIP's plan is simple" Farage explains, turning to the audience simply, "We have to get the numbers down, and to do that we have to-".

"Leave the European Union?" myself and my fellow participants chime. The onlookers chuckle and applaud, as the rest of us simply shake our heads. "God Almighty, imagine this man in national debates" Paddy Ashdown, the representative of the Liberal Democrats, whispers to me. I shudder almost. "I'm not sure I want to" I reply.

"Well, I thank our panellists for that, well, enlightening discussion" the debates invigilator pipes up, "We now move onto our next question, of an entirely different nature, which comes from a Mr Peter White". There is some bustling as a microphone is passed up to the gentleman in question. As it happens, I feel a buzzing in my trouser pocket. Due to my own inability to effectively use technology, I hadn't been able to turn my phone on silent. Curious, I glance at the screen to see who had sent me a message. 'Nevin'. Perhaps my elder brother was thanking me for suppressing the Telegraph attack he had been so worried about?

"The leaders of all three major parties have talked about working to create a fairer and more equal society" our latest questioner says, "With that in mind, what do our panellists say to the idea of legalising same sex marriage?". Some audience members gasp quietly and look to one another with incredulous expressions. Others nod enthusiastically. I found I needed no time to think over an answer to this particular question.

"Thank you, Mr White" the invigilator smiles, "Ms Nelson, would you like to begin?". I nod and look up to where Mr White sat. His tone gave no indication of hostility to the idea, so I had a feeling he would very much like what I had to say.

"I remember asking a similar question at an event very much like this one in the 1980s" I state, "I was scoffed at, dismissed as some kind of extremist. The argument I make now is exactly the same as that which I made all those years ago. If I, a heterosexual, can marry, I see no reason why a homosexual can't". I'm glad that heavy applause follows, with the majority of my fellow panellists clapping too. I feel further buzzing from phone, but ignore it.

"This is a question of equality, pure and simple, and I think it a great shame that same-sex marriage has not yet been legalised" I add, "True, we made a great advancement in the introduction of civil partnerships, but I have always argued that we should go further and open marriage up to all". Further nodding and applause. I was glad our audience were so open-minded a bunch. True, some simply sat silent with their arms crossed, but it was an improvement on the sorts I had been faced with all those years ago in the 80s.

"Mr Gove, would you like to continue?" the invigilator asks, turning to Conservatives' ridiculously courteous education spokesman. There is yet another buzz in my pocket. "Someone is desperate to talk to you" Paddy comments quietly. I shoot him a grin as Gove speaks (I'm happy to say he entirely agreed with me). "Well, as a Lib Dem, I doubt you know what it's like to be wanted" I joke.

I glance down at my phone and see that I now have three messages from my brother. I couldn't spend too much time looking at my phone, certainly not in the midst of a debate. Perhaps too impatient, I turn my phone off completely and stuff it back into my pocket. "For once, I completely agree with Elizabeth" Gove says, offering me a genuinely kind smile, which I feel obliged to return. "As a Conservative, I value the ties that bind us as individuals" he goes on, "As David Cameron has said, in today's Britain it is silly to exclude those who are gay from marriage".

"But it's in neither of your manifestos!" comes a heckler. Several people turn and tut at him. I simply chuckle to myself.

"And this debate began with the condition that members of the audience don't intervene" I retort, "But that is clearly one convention you're willing to break". I hear even Farage chuckling. The heckler had been correct, of course, rather sadly. I didn't consider it to be a barrier, however.

"My youngest brother is gay" I say, addressing the heckler, "I remember he rang me shortly after I got divorced. 'You are able to remove yourself from a marriage, but I remain unable to even move into one', he said. I told him that I am determined he one day endures the same misery that straight divorcees such as myself have enjoyed for hundreds of years". The faintest hints of amusement flicker even the eyes of the heckler. Paddy pats me on the arm as the audience chuckle.

The message had gotten through, at least. It was nice to be able to have a laugh in serious situations such as this. We were but two days out from Election day. I was determined to dispense every shred of humour I could muster before the dark mood the election would inevitably cause set in. It was also nice to think of my younger brother again. It had been many months since I had last seen Ian, now an academic in his early 30s. A fierce and often moody socialist, he and I had often fallen out, but family he remained.

"Thank you to all our panellists for participating" the invigilator states, "And thank you to all those who have attended. Good night". The audience give one final round of applause, before rising to their feet and reaching for their coats. "A very confident performance, if I might say" Paddy says as he shakes my hand. I smile at him and arch an eyebrow.

"You talk to me as though I'm an actress" I reply. Paddy gives me a knowing look, the sort that could only be given my a man of his wisdom and experience. I was a maverick in comparison to him. "Is it not all an act?" he asks, "You're far too intelligent to think your side is in with a good chance on Thursday". My eyebrow rises ever further. Indeed, I was too intelligent to think Labour would have a good night, but I didn't want to give an air of total pessimism.

"Says the Liberal Democrat" I quip, "I'd be wary to getting too cocky, Paddy". Paddy simply chuckles. "As I mentor Nick" he says, "You mentor Gordon".

"Much good it does either of them" I joke, "Still, let's not leave in bitterness. Good night, Paddy".

"Not sticking around for a chat with the others?" he asks, and I get the sense he's itching to discuss Europe with Farage. I dart my eyes in the direction of our fellow participants and shake my head. "Oh no" I tell him, "I'm going to escape before Gove comes over".

And escape I do. With the audience gone, I am allowed to leave the hall easily. As I walk, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and turn it on. I wondered what calamity Nevin was so desperate to inform me about. As my phone kicks into life again, I find he has left a further four messages. Seven texts seemed excessive for my less than valiant efforts to suppress The Telegraph's damning story about him. All that was required was a kind smile and a little flirtation with its editor. Any dalliance I had engaged in with William Lewis was entirely for my own entertainment.

"Liz". I look up from my phone sharply and stop my dead in my tracks. "Nevin?" I ask the figure suddenly stood in front of me, puzzled as to why my brother was here. I had left him to look after Emily and his own daughter in my home up the road. "I've been trying to contact you" he speaks, his voice shaky. I had never seen him quite so pale.

"What is it?" I ask. My brother blinks at me. There is a moment of quite between us. The longer I watch, the more I begin to notice the pure sadness in Nevin's eyes, and the tears that build in them. Oh God, what was happening? "Nevin?" I try again, "What is it?".

"It's father" my brother gulps. My heart sinks instantly. No doubt this was what he had been so desperate to tell me about. And I had actually turned my phone off, muting him entirely. The bartender at Spencer House the previous night had informed me that my father was in hospital, but my mother had confirmed to me over the phone this morning that it was because of slight fluctuations in his heart rate. For a man with a long history of heart problems, it was not unusual.

"Has he got worse?" I question, stepping closer to Nevin, eyes darting towards the door of the building. We could leave the children in the hands of Dorothy, my ever helpful housekeeper, for now and drive straight up to the hospital. I felt guilty for not going up sooner.

"Liz, he's-" Nevin stutters, "He's gone". My eyebrows furrow instinctively. "What do you mean?" I snap. Of course, I knew precisely what he meant, but I could scarcely believe it. No. I wouldn't. I couldn't.

My brother gulps. His effort to contain his tears is visible now. I can only stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief. Gone. This was a word I would not accept. Yet Nevin defies me with nothing but the reality. "He's dead".


	57. The Exit Poll.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fun begins...

**6th May, 2010.**

**The BBC, London.**

"Welcome to election night on the BBC". I hear David Dimbleby's voice from across the studio. As the opening sequence begins to play, he walks hurriedly back to his place before a large, empty screen, cue cards held tightly in his aging hands, small smile plastered on his face. Someone had to enjoy themselves.

I was more or less certain about the result of the election by now. Throughout the campaign I had maintained, privately, that Labour would lose. Even if I knew it was coming, it would be a difficult night, and the added pressure of my father's death did not help. I doubted I would break down in tears at any point, but it still weighed rather heavily on my mind.

I watch as the camera follows Dimbleby around the studio, charging his every movement as he explains the format of the programme. As he talks, Nick Robinson leans over to me and whispers. "We'll interview you once the exit poll is in" he informs me.

"I figured" I reply, perhaps too sharply. No doubt Robinson thought I was tetchy solely because of my party's poor prospects. I allow myself a heavy sigh before my inevitable interrogation begins and rest my head in my hands. We had fallen rather sharply since 1997. It was painful, really, but entirely self-inflicted.

I glance over to one of the screens before me and watch as the countdown continues. "And in a moment, as Big Ben strikes ten, we'll be able to give you the result of our exit poll" Dimbleby speaks. I can almost feel the clock ticking. I clear my throat and straighten myself up in my seat. I couldn't be seen to be moping already. I wouldn't give any Conservatives watching that luxury.

"We've been to one hundred and thirty different polling stations to figure this out" Dimbleby continues, steadying himself as the moment draws dangerously near, "And remember this is just an exit poll". Exit polls had often been wrong in the past, but I doubted we would see little variation with this one. Nick Robinson offers me one final look of pity. I'm tempted to feel as though I need it.

And then comes that familiar 'bong' sound. The face of Big Ben flashes up on screen, and for a split second there is silence as everyone, within and outside the studio, waits with baited breath. "Ten o'clock" Dimbleby announces, "And this is what we're saying".

"It's going to be a hung parliament, with the Conservatives as the largest party". Hung parliament. Labour in second place. Peter Mandelson had lost our bet. If anything, I would at least end this night twenty pounds richer than I began it. I find myself briefly pondering on what my father might have made of this exit poll. David was his nephew, and so regarded him highly, but also considered him to have too light a touch. I stop once it begins to make me sad again.

Conservatives, 307. Labour, 255. I find my eyebrows shoot up slightly as Dimbleby reads out the figures. Two hundred and fifty five seats. It was certainly more than we had been anticipating. I could already sense the sighs of relief from central office. And the sighs of dismay in Conservative HQ.

I allow myself a quick smirk when the fate of the Liberal Democrats is revealed. Fifty nine. They were going to lose seats. My warnings to both Nick Clegg and Paddy Ashdown had proven right. It was a great shame I hadn't place a bet on that too. So long as Charles Kennedy wasn't amongst tonight's victims, I wouldn't be too bothered. True, with the event of a hung parliament, the Liberal Democrats were bound to play a big role in the coming days, but my focus would be elsewhere.

"Interesting. Very interesting" Robinson mutters beside me, scribbling away at his notepad. I find I have no choice but to sit back and twiddle my thumbs as Dimbleby continues to drone on. I didn't mean to be irate, but my mood had not been a good one since the dreadful night of the 4th. There is a small rumble in my pocket. Peter's name flashes up on the screen of my phone.

'It seems I owe you twenty pounds'. He at least remembered. I supposed I would have to donate those twenty pounds to the party, a small token to help with the recovery. It was either that or use the money to pay for a round of drinks with Peter. I reflect far too soon that the latter was the better plan.

"Joining us now we have the Deputy Prime Minister" Dimbleby says, finally taking his seat, "Ms Nelson, this does not look good for your party, does it?". I offer him a smile in the usual way.

"Well it's certainly better than what most were expecting in the run up to this exit poll" I reply calmly, "Just days earlier it was said by the media that the Conservatives would sweep to a majority. It doesn't look that way". It was a typical politician's response- forgetting about one's own party and instead going for 'the other guy'. Dimbleby, who was by now a master of his trade, was not impressed.

"Perhaps, but what about your own party?" he argues, "If this exit poll is right, Labour have lost. You're predicted to be over ninety seats down". I would have to resort to the next oh-so-typical election night excuse. "As you say, this is just an exit poll" I respond, still remaining perfectly calm on the outside, "Exit polls have been wrong in the past". That was far too pathetic a response, I decided soon after, and so before Dimbleby can reprimand me, I speak again.

"Of course, if this poll is right, it's a big disappointment for us" I add, "But we aren't about to be wiped out". Robinson taps his pen on the table and looks at me thoughtfully.

"If this exit poll is accurate, it's clear that Gordon Brown has been rejected by the British people" he states, "Surely it would be right for him to resign?".

"I'm sure you'd love for me to start calling for a leadership election" I retort, with a smile of course, "But it's not going to happen. I will support Gordon so long as he wishes to remain as my party's leader". That might well be a matter of days, I think to myself. Robinson was right, really. Gordon, as much as I loved him, was not the man the British people wanted. I just prayed that he was as prepared for this as Peter and I had been.

"Will Labour now engage in talks with other parties, perhaps the Lib Dems, in order to stay in power?" Robinson asks. I arch an eyebrow. He was far too intelligent to think that I would advocate the patching together of some ragtag coalition. There would be no dignity or fairness in such a thing.

"We shall see what the hours ahead bring" I offer, "Whatever happens, of course, Labour will remain a strong fighting force". Robinson nods, message received and understood. It would easily be interpreted as a dismissal of coaltion, of that I was most hopeful. I hoped the rest of my party would be as plain.

"Finally, Ms Nelson, should Gordon Brown resign" Dimbleby asks, "Will you stand for the leadership?". I can't help but laugh. "My party would have to be very desperate to elect me as its leader" I tell him, to which I smiles slightly. Party leader. What a ridiculous thought. As an ambitious young soul, you might think I was interested. I can honestly say it had never really crossed my mind.

"Thank you, Ms Nelson" Dimbleby says, "No doubt we'll join you again later at your count". I nod and smile kindly. Once I was confident I was out of shot, I slip out of my seat and make my way to the edges of the studio. I unclip my microphone and pass it to a technician nearby. Jonathan, my political secretary, waits by the door. "They can't moan at you for dispensing the usual 'it's just an exit poll' argument" he says as we leave the studio together, "Everyone else does it". It was indeed the typical line for losing parties. Such was the business of politics that it would be worse for me to tell the truth and admit defeat.

"I didn't look at all rattled, did I?" I ask as we make our way through the many corridors of the BBC. Jonathan shakes his head. "You looked perfectly calm" he reassured me, "You held yourself very well, given the situation". Showing emotion was also a mistake in events such as these.

"You're being very brave, you know" Jonathan says, "Putting yourself out there so soon after your father's passing". I shoot him a dismissive look and shake my head.

"I'm not being brave" I reply sternly, "I still have a job to do". I knew Jonathan meant nothing by it, but I wasn't about to be confined to my office to weep. Yes, I was hurting, but there was much to be getting on with. Jonathan simply shrugs.

"Still, I think you're proving your strength. Lord knows I wouldn't be able to keep my composure after just two days" he says. There is a bluntness to his words that I don't particularly like. "You know, I think I've left my coat in the green room" I say, stopping just before we reach the door of the building and turning to him sharply, "Could you run and fetch it for me?". Jonathan darts off without hesitation. My coat was actually in the car, but I was rather desperate to get rid of him for a moment.

I find the minute he disappears up the stairs again, I burst into tears. I raise a hand to my mouth to stifle any sound, and use the other to wipe away my tears the moment they fall. So much for strength. A heart attack had taken my father in the end. In times past, he had been able to overcome them. Age and illness had left him weak, I suppose. I felt so terribly guilty about not going to see him when I had been first informed that he was ill. The guilt did nothing to stem my tears.

The door of the building opens, and in come two men. It was dark in the lobby, with the lights dimmed and the sun gone outside. I'm thankful for the lack of light, but to be sure that the passing men won't notice me, I turn my back on them, bowing my head. I wouldn't allow them to see me cry. I was far too proud for that, however miserable I felt inside.

"Could you run up first, and see if they're ready for me yet? I think perhaps we're a little early" I hear one of the men speak. Shit. How I wished I didn't recognise that voice so. I was by now convinced that God was determined to throw myself and George Osborne together as often as He could, as though trying to make us feel awkward. I would bump into him in the lobbies of the Commons, cross him in corridors, meet him whilst out canvassing. I'd be grateful to stumble into someone different, to be quite honest.

Jonathan, will you hurry up. No doubt the man was searching for my coat by now. Sending him away was now looking like a bad idea. How I wished he would come back so we could leave before George noticed me. What made things worse was the fact that George had clearly sent his own aide away towards the studio. Perhaps he was early? That surely meant he would be hanging around in the lobby for a moment or two.

I wipe the last of my tears from my eyes and straighten myself up. I avert my gaze towards the door and wonder whether to simply attempt my escape. I could easily sneak away, surely? I wasn't prepared to let anyone see my vulnerability so on show, especially someone I knew. I emit a small sigh and grit my teeth. And then my escape begins. As causally as I can manage, I tread softly towards the door. Jonathan could meet me outside. Safety was so very near.

"Liz?".

Fuck. I'm almost tempted to leg it out of the door and not turn back, but dignity and my heels prevented me. I clear my throat and turn around, sporting as bright a smile as I can manage. Small, weak, forced. A smile it was, I suppose.

"Liz?" George asks, eyes narrowed slightly. I supposed my make up might be a little smudged. And no doubt my smile was less than convincing. "Are you quite alright?" he asks, concerned look in his eye.

"I'm perfectly fine" I lie, "I'm just tired". George judges me sceptically. It was better to do a terrible job of lying than to admit weakness, in my opinion. "David told me about your father" George says, "I'm very sorry". I sigh and clear my throat.

"It's just life, I suppose" I offer, glancing over George's shoulder for any sign of Jonathan. Even if George had spotted me before I was able to escape, I still wanted to leave as soon as possible. "I suppose you're off to Henley now" George says, and I'm grateful that he changes the subject.

"Yes, to see whether I'm to keep my job" I reply, "I don't suppose you have a number for the job centre, do you?". George laughs and shakes his head.

"After the last few election defeats, I always keep it close by" he jokes, "You'll keep your seat, undoubtedly". I arch an eyebrow at him.

"And wouldn't that annoy you" I shoot. No doubt Henley was a seat the Conservatives were targeting this year. The tricky business with the Campions had kept them from victory at the last election. Had I been in a better mood, I might have thought more of George's kindness.

"I'd be very disappointed to see you lose, actually" he tells me firmly, perhaps offended by the clear bitterness in my tone. "I'd imagine you've a bottle of champagne tucked away in central office in case the seat swings your way" I mutter. George frowns at me. It was unusual for him to look on me with such a serious expression. I found it made me regret the harshness in my words. My unkindness was unwarranted, yet I involuntarily kept it up.

"I think that's very unfair" George tells me.

"Is that not the way this business works?" I ask, "This is an election". The exit poll flashes in my mind once more. The first results would be in by the time Jonathan arrived back. I truly was regretting sending him away now. The article he searched for was in fact lying in my car outside.

"It's different with you" George says, the faintest hints of frustration flashing in his dark eyes. I narrow my own at him and shake my head. "Why?" I ask sharply. George maintains his frustration for just a moment longer, until abruptly it fades. The softness I was used to emerges, as does George's aide from a door behind him.

"Mr Osborne?" he calls, "They're ready for you". Jonathan slips out from the same door and hurries along to my side. I glance at George once more. I should have smiled, but I didn't. "It seems you've been summoned" I say, "Good night". With that, I nod to Jonathan and together we head towards the door. I hear George sigh where he stands.

The moment we step outside, I take a deep breath. Fresh air. I hadn't realised I needed it so much. "What kept you?" I ask Jonathan.

"I was trying to find your coat" he answers dutifully, "I couldn't find it in the end, so I wondered whether you had in fact left it in the car". I sigh.

"Clearly I must have" I say, feeling rather exhausted already, "Thank you, Jonathan". My aide smiles and gestures towards the black car waiting by the curb. I find my head starts to ache as I climb inside. I was grieving for my father, sorry for my treatment of George and sad about my party. Twenty pounds from a bet with Peter seemed pathetic consolation for the loss of so many wonderful people. It would buy us a few drinks to drown our sorrows. Still, my disappointment was strong. I loved Gordon a great deal, and this election would undoubtedly take him away from the job he had dreamt of having for decades.

"Where to, Ms Nelson?" my driver asks. I would have to get the train to Henley. It would be some hours before the count in my constituency took place, but I always preferred to get there as soon as possible. "Euston, please" I tell him, resting my head on the rest of my seat, closing my eyes as my head continued to pound.

My peace is interrupted by a shrill ringing. As my eyes wrench open again, I see Jonathan retrieve his phone from his pocket and press it to his ear. I audibly groan when he holds it towards me soon afterwards. "It's for you" he says. I try my upmost to stay calm, but feel myself snap anyway.

"Oh, tell them to fuck off" I growl. I'm sure I can feel the car swerve ever so slightly as my driver gasps. Jonathan simply stares at me. Still he holds the phone out. "It is for you, Deputy Prime Minister" he repeats. I find my eyes widen slightly at his firmness. Jonathan had served me for quite some time now. Clearly he was used to my frailties. It felt like defiance, but I was grateful. Even the person most responsible for the backside-kicking needed a boot to the hind sometimes.

I take the phone from him and hold it to my ear. "Hello?" I ask.

"A more polite greeting" I hear Charles Kennedy say on the other end, "Much better". I run my eyes wearily and sigh.

"Please, Charles, I am not in the mood" I grumble. Charles' tone seemed surprisingly light. He hadn't been particularly prominent during the general election. I sometimes wondered whether the Liberal Democrats insisted on keeping it that way, given the reasons for his resignation four years ago. Charles was the best of them, that I had always believed.

"No, I don't suppose you are" Charles concedes, "I'm ever so sorry, Liz. This has been a terrible week for you". That it had. That party I had attended earlier in the week seemed particularly worthwhile now. It seems I was right to seek a little enjoyment when I could.

"I'll get through" I insist.

"I know you will" Charles says, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice, "Liz, I will just get straight to the point. I don't want my party talking to the Tories". I frown and ponder on that admission for a moment. A hung parliament did raise the possibility of a coalition, as I had predicted earlier. With the Conservatives ahead by quite a number, it was likely that any pact formed in the next few days would include both them and the Lib Dems.

"I can't prevent Clegg from talking with them" I tell Charles, "And it's highly unlikely that he'll want to talk with us. He doesn't like Gordon at all". That had been made clear to me during the televised debates. There was an awkwardness between them that was plain to see. Clegg was a far softer creature than Gordon.

"I realise that" Charles speaks, "But you have to realise the implications of a deal with those lot. It could finish us". It was difficult to see Lib Dem voters forgiving them if they did jump into bed with the Tories. They weren't exactly natural bedfellows.

"Clegg would lose his churchillian status faster than he gained it" I muse, "I have to be frank with you, Charles, the only Liberal Democrat other than Paddy whom I have any love for is you". I wouldn't cry too much if Clegg's fortunes dwindled. Nor would I cry at the loss of his MPs, so long as Charles wasn't among them.

"I know" Charles chuckles, "I'm flattered. But this isn't just about my party, it's about the country. We can't let the Tories rule alone". Whilst the Conservatives had most probably won the most seats in this election, and won a higher share of the vote than we had, most of the country still voted against them. And with the economy in such a state, it was clear they would soon start making some very difficult decisions indeed.

"But what exactly is the alternative?" I ask, "There are no grounds for a coaltion between your party and mine".

"It has to be worth a shot" Charles insists. I sigh and rub my temple. I would have much to ponder on as I travelled up to Oxfordshire. My mind now seemed to be weighted down by a thousand different thoughts at once.

"Fine, but know that I don't approve of any of this" I concede, "And the next time we have dinner, you're paying".


	58. Red and Orange.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talks begin, and Elizabeth begins to suspect that she isn't the only one who is less than enthusiastic.

**8th May, 2010.**

**Portcullis House, London.**

"Going some where nice?" Peter Mandelson asks me as I climb into the back of our car. It zooms off the moment my door is shut, clearly desperate to escape the oncoming hoardes of journalists. I glance down at my attire. I wore a new dress, but nothing unusual. I suppose I'd made more of an effort with my hair this evening.

"Ah yes, if you could drop me off at the Savoy on the way, that would be marvellous" I joke. Peter raises an eyebrow. "I'm having dinner with William Lewis once these talks are done" I tell him. Peter's expression remains unchanged. "Your new journalist friend?" he asks. No doubt he distrusted William. The Telegraph weren't particularly sympathetic to our party, I suppose.

"You seem confident that we'll finish everything quickly" Peter says. I sigh and look at him knowingly. Neither of us were keen on the idea, but we went along with it for Gordon's sake. Formal talks between Labour and Liberal Democrats. I had told Charles Kennedy that I would do what I could.

"I heard David Laws on the radio earlier" Ed Balls says, leaning out from the front seat and poking his head out into the back. I groan quietly and roll my eyes. I'd hoped he would be left behind. We could manage quite well without his irritating presence. "He started on about economic responsibility" Balls continues, "You can tell they've been talking to the Tories".

"You can't begrudge them sense, Balls" I reply. I was glad they were at least beginning to think much more seriously about the economy. It must be so very gratifying to belong to a third party, to be able to go about the country promising money left, right and centre.

"You sure you don't want to go and join your boyfriend at Conservative Central Office?" Balls swipes. I narrow my eyes at him most sharply.

"Are you sure you don't want me to throw you out onto the pavement?" I shoot back. I did dislike that man so very much. I couldn't recall any moment in which we had actually gotten along.

"Come now, children" Peter soothes, "Save your energy for the discussions". I lean back in my seat and divert my eyes towards the window. "So who else do we have on the team?" I ask.

"Harriet and other Ed" Peter tells me, "Oh, and Andrew Adonis". I arch an eyebrow. It seemed a sound team. It was a shame Balls had been included, of course.

"I presume Laws and Alexander are fronting the liberal team" I say. Those two did seem linger around Clegg during the election campaign. Indeed, it was Laws and Alexander whom I had seen on the studio floor of the Birmingham debate. It was a great shame the likes of Vince Cable, or of course Charles, did not take more of a forward role in the process.

"Yes. Chris Hugne is also to join them" Perer informs me, "And some other chap, whose name I forget". I chuckle slightly and shake my head. Peter did a much poorer job of disguising his reluctance than I did. I had at least bothered to read my notes before leaving home.

"How organised we are" I joke. To my announce, Balls leans back to us once more. "So long as they don't try and walk all over us" he states, chubby face tinting an angered red, "I don't care who they've got". Peter blinks at him.

"Ever the diplomat" he mutters.

"I know tact isn't exactly your forte, Balls" I tell my colleague firmly, "But do and try to remember a little decorum when we arrive". Balls looks at me blankly. There had to be something I was missing in regards to Ed Balls. This was a man who had graduated from Oxford University, found a top job at the Treasury and married Yvette Cooper. All three seemed beyond the specimen before me. Perhaps Balls simply insisted on behaving like a fool when in my presence.

"Here we are" Peter comments casually, glancing out of the window as the car begins to slow. We make our exit swiftly, hurrying along the pavement into Portcullis House before we can be ambushed. The press had been lurking all over London ever since election night.

"You look very smart, Liz" Harriet greets me kindly. I place my hand on my hip on strike a pose in jest. "Desperate times call for desperate measures" I play, "I'm hoping to catch the eye of Danny Alexander". Harriet giggles most girlishly. I glance over her shoulder and slot Ed ordering coffee from the counter beyond. If this discussion did drag, coffee would no doubt be needed.

"She has a date" Balls explains, crossing his arms with a grin. Peter, as per, has little time for such talk and slinks away to the side, typing away most furiously on his phone. "And aren't you jealous?" I quip.

"Dinner with another of your Tory wankers?" Balls scoffs, "I'd rather-".

"Hello everyone" comes a soft voice. We all turn sharply and instantly an air of awkwardness descends. There, files in hand, eyes bright, stood the Liberal Democrats.

"Sorry if we're a little late" David Laws say, "Traffic and all that. Where are we to sit down then?". They had the air of new students arriving at school. They were relatively experienced politicians, yet they seemed to view the task before them with the upmost wonder. Liberals on the verge of actual power. It must have been quite the novelty for them all.

"Ah, yes" Peter says, taking the lead, "If could you'd like to follow me". Laws nods and walks alongside him through the building. We all follow suit, chatting as casually as we can manage. "Do you think they saw the crowds protesting outside their central office?" my Ed asks quietly.

"They could hardly miss it" I snort.

"Peter told me that the protestors were actually Labour workers" Ed says with an amused smile. I raise an eyebrow at him. His smile fades, now replaced by a look of confusion.

"It was my idea" I tell him, "They don't need to know that, though". The Tories and the liberals were already talking by Friday evening. Peter, despite his lack of belief in the proposed Lib-Lab pact, was keen on the Liberal Democrats backing away a little. And so I had proposed sending one hundred or so of our workers to pose as disgruntled Lib Dem members and force their hand a little. They had to keep their party happy, after all.

"Here we are" Peter says, leading us into a relatively small room with a single table in it. The liberals occupied one side whilst we took the other. I grumble under my breath when I notice the way Balls I had decided to sit. He slouched in his seat, arms folded, position defensive. Danny Alexander viewed him most uncomfortably.

"Right, so how would you like to proceed?" Laws asks, a bright smile on his lips. I'm tempted to roll my eyes. Either they saw something in these talks, or they were on strict instructions from Clegg to appear enthusiastic. It made our own show look rather pathetic in comparison.

"I suppose we just get talking" Peter says. I nudge him gently with my elbow, and instantly he sits up a little straighter. As pointless as I believed this discussion to be, I was at least keen for it to be amicable. "First of all, if I might say" Laws says, "We have doubts about whether a coalition between our parties would be credible". Harriet and I share a knowing look. That feeling of doubt was very much mutual.

"Given the numbers, of course" Laws adds, "And the public mood". Given the result of the election, I wasn't entirely sure what it was the public actually wanted. They didn't want a Conservative government, but nor did they want a Labour one. And there were still swathes of the electorate who didn't care for the Liberal Democrats.

"Oh? And what sort of a public mood is that then?" Balls grumbles in his seat. The four liberals before us look to him with disapproval. Danny Alexander seemed most intimidated. Sensing awkwardness approaching, I react. "Ow!" Balls exclaims suddenly.

"Are you alright?" Hugne asks, expression a deeply puzzled one. Balls nurses his foot and looks to me with angry eyes. "Yeah" he replies, teeth slightly gritted, "I must have kicked the table". I offer him a sweet smile.

And if he spoke out of turn again, he would find himself nursing his other foot.


	59. Old Friends.

**11th May, 2010.**

**Downing Street, London.**

Just as this election was about to be called, I had sat in my office in Downing Street and wondered for how much longer it would be mine. I had mused then whether I would, in a months time, find myself thrown out. That time was very much upon me now, it seems. I wished I hadn't predicted our downfall with such a casual air. Had I been complacent? Was my lack of optimism partly responsible for this? Hurrah. Another thing for me to feel incredibly sorry about.

"For goodness sake" I mutter as my phone rings. More than once in the last few days I had been tempted to throw it from my window. "Fraser, my darling brother, how splendid of you to call" I sigh. I had decided not to ignore any of my siblings after my father's death, no matter how inconvenient the timing. "You needn't worry. I'm not calling for a quote" Fraser says. He had taken journalism in his stride, now the proud editor of The Spectator. Mostly I suspected he was proud to outrank his twin, who remained a Deputy Editor of Vogue.

"A good thing to" I reply, "Because I wouldn't have given you one". Fraser sighs from the other end and pauses for a moment.

"I'm worried about Nevin" he admits, "He's in a very dark mood". I rub my temple wearily and sink a little further into my chair. It wasn't a dignified position but I was too downtrodden to care. "Of course he is. No one was closer to Father than he was" I say, "It's hard on all of us, but especially Nevin". What made things considerably worse was the fact that Nevin had already been rather depressed. The shadow of his foul ex-wife and his sacking from RBS had taken their toll.

"I'm not sure what to say to him" Fraser goes on, an admission entirely out of character for him. A very capable journalist, Fraser almost always knew what to say.

"I think perhaps we should leave him be until he recovers from the initial shock of it all" I tell him, "How is mother?". My poor mother. She had nursed my father tirelessly in his waning years, doting on him as much as she could. There were quite some years between my parents, but my mother was still getting old.

"As you'd expect" Fraser answers solemnly, "Helena is staying with her at the moment, so that she isn't lonely". A hollow chuckle escapes my lips.

"I suppose you and I are rather busy" I comment. Fraser sighs heavily. I can practically sense his exhaustion. Clearly watching events was as tiring as being involved in them. At least he hadn't spent the last few days haggling with Liberal Democrats over Europe and the correct policy on climate change.

"We are rather" my brother replies, "Say, what do you make of the rumours that Gordon Brown is about to resign?".

"You prick" I blurt, laughing despite myself, "I thought we were having a rather deep moment there". He was a journalist. I should have known we would end up discussing the election.

"Well?" Fraser insists. I roll my eyes. I'd been working very closely with Gordon these last few days, and whilst I had already conceded that he would soon stand aside, I didn't think that time had come just yet.

"Have you been speaking to The Sun or something?" I quip. Fraser scoffs.

"You insult me" he retorts, "So? Nothing to say?". I narrow my eyes at nothing in particular and sit upright in my chair. I look up when I hear a light knock on my door. "You are quite the snake, brother" I say, "You'll have to excuse me now. I've things to do". And with that, I end the call. Setting my phone down again, I sit still for a moment. It was at moments like this that I became incredibly self-aware.

I had predicted that we would lose the general election, yet it still hit me hard when it happened. I had predicted that Gordon would be forced to leave the job he so loved, yet it threatened to ground me ever more as it loomed. It was easy to laugh and remain calm in the run up to these things, but the pain that came with the actual event didn't seem to dull in any way. Whether it was cockiness, naivety or simply human nature, I did not know.

Again there is a knock on my door. "Yes?" I call. "The Prime Minister wants to speak to you" I hear Jonathan say from the other side, "He says it's important". I sigh and take a few moments to steady myself. Perhaps Fraser was right. Perhaps this was to be it.

Jonathan offers me a small smile as I find myself lingering near the door of Gordon's office. As I had walked, I had noticed a most forlorn Sarah holding her boys closely. They were such a lovely family. It would be incredibly hard to see them leave Downing Street.

"Gordon?" I call, opening the door. I glance about inside and spot my friend standing by the window, gazing down at the street below with a troubled expression. "They're gathering" he mutters, "I never did like the press". Clearly Fraser was not the only one who had clicked on.

"You're not supposed to" I reply, trying to inject a little humour into the proceedings, "You're a politician". Gordon turns away from the window and looks to me with tired eyes. Stress had taken its toll. His once black hair was now a thick grey, and under his eyes he sported near-permanent bags. The pity I felt for that man.

"I suppose you know why I've asked to see you" Gordon says, "You know why I have to do this". I nod automically, finding my voice fails me on this occasion. I was already trying to remind myself that this was all inevitable, that there was no other way to get the party moving again.

"I do" I tell him earnestly, "But before you do go, just know that I have never respected you so much, nor been so proud to call you my friend". Gordon smiles sadly and shakes his head. Such was his devastation that he was on the verge of tears.

"Och, come now" he says, stepping towards me, "Don't make me cry". I laugh at that. If he did cry, I would end up doing the same.

"We've had some adventures though, eh?" he continues. I raise an eyebrow at that. Adventures seemed rather a bold word for a profession as trivial as ours.

"Standing in for you when you couldn't make it in time for your pre-budget statement. Being phoned by you minutes before appearing on The Daily Politics to say you'd called a voter a bigot" I jest. Gordon chuckes and shakes his head. To think we had met so long ago. I had been another young party activist back then, and he an ambitious young shadow spokesman. I could still remember how he, and John Smith, had taken me under his wing so kindly.

"We've had a good run" Gordon concedes, misery returning to his voice, "I suppose it's off to the backbenches with me now". I had kept my seat in Henley, surprisingly with an increased majority, and so I would still be able to see Gordon on a regular basis.

"I'll sit there with you" I decide. Thirteen years on the government front bench seemed like sufficient time to me. But Gordon disagreed. He gently takes my hands in his own and shakes his head.

"No. I need you to stay on" he tells me, "Our party is in a very bad place at the moment, Liz. I need you to lead it until a successor is found". I'm tempted to back away at this suggestion, but his grip on my hands dissuades me. Lead. The idea was one I dismissed immediately.

"You know I have no interest in leading, interim or not" I remind him calmly, "Besides, Harriet is your deputy". It would make most sense for Harriet to stand in whilst the leadership election took place, but it seemed Gordon had other ideas.

"Harriet is deputy to the party. You're deputy to me" my old friend says, "Please, Liz". I note the look of incredible sadness in his eyes and give in. I wouldn't enjoy it, but if it was Gordon's wish, I would do it. "Fine" I reply quietly, "So long as you don't do a Margaret Thatcher and begin criticising my every move". We share another short titter at that, before falling silent again. By this point it felt as though we were simply biding time, or perhaps trying to escape it. Anything to put off the approaching onslaught from the hoardes of journalists waiting below.

"I realise I have, in the past, been too short with you. I realise I haven't always given you the appreciation you deserve" Gordon says, and already I can feel tears threatening to spill my eyes, "But just know that I am incredibly proud of you. And I know John would be too". That final sentence alone comforted me more than anything else. I had seen and done much since I had lost John Smith. I truly hoped he was proud of me, as Gordon suggested.

"We should visit him together soon. John would like that" I suggest, recalling our friend's grave in the far reaches of Scotland, "Once this horrid episode passes". Gordon clears his throat and glances back towards the window. "Speaking of which" he says, "It's time, Liz". I release one of his hands, but keep the other held tightly.

"Then let's go" I say, putting on as brave a face as I can manage. Gordon smiles fondly. I'm glad the sadness has gone from it now. It was better to leave with a smile than to leave sobbing, I thought.

"You'll stick by me?" Gordon asks hopefully. I'm surprised he even needs to ask. I'd barely left his side for eighteen years.

"Absolutely" I tell him, making for the door, "We are old friends, you and I". Gordon nods to that and steadied himself. Together we leave the room, finding Sarah and the boys are already waiting.

And then we are gone. 


	60. The New Occupants.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth returns to Downing Street one final time, and finds that she has been replaced far quicker than she could have imagined.

**13th May, 2010.**

**Downing Street, London.**

It felt strange, to enter No. 10 as a mere visitor. For the first time in thirteen years, I had been stopped by a waiting policeman before entering the building. I felt it rather undignified, to be questioned by someone who should have been very much familiar with me. "Ms Nelson" was the greeting I was given when finally admitted, not "Deputy Prime Minister".

Still, I would have to mourn my title another day. I had come, with a small sense of dread, to Downing Street this morning with a purpose. To collect what remained in my office. Just as Gordon had continued to use his rooms during and after the election, I occupied my office until the very day he stood aside. I had decided against returning the day after. Downing Street's new occupants needed time to settle without my ghostly presence.

"Ms Nelson" staff nod to me as I am led along the corridors of the building towards my old bolt hole. They did at least still register me. I wondered whether civil servants were capable of attachment.

"Ms Nelson, I would perhaps like to point out" the man leading me through the building says, notably with hesitation, "Well...". I narrow my eyes at him as his voice trails off. Perhaps they had burnt the room upon my departure, to rid it of all traces of New Labour.

"Well, Mr Clegg has..." the man stuttered, "He has-". I laugh, albeit bitterly, and shake my head.

"He's taken my office, hasn't he?" I ask, feeling little surprise, "You people certainly don't waste any time, do you?". The man clears his throat and looks to his feet, cheeks tinting a bright pink. He gestures towards the door of my seemingly ex-office. The plaque upon it had not changed. Still I could read the words 'Deputy Prime Minister' upon it.

With a sigh, I step forward. My hand reaches instinctively for the door handle and turns it with hesitation. _It doesn't belong to you any more, Elizabeth_. I pause, and then move my hand away to knock. I hadn't left my manners behind.

"Come in" I hear a man's voice call from the other side. I clear my throat, and feign as kind a smile as I can. "Hello, Mr Clegg" I greet, "Don't worry, I haven't come to take my office back. I'm merely coming to retrieve a few things". Clegg jumps up from his seat and returns my smile politely. He walks out from behind his desk, which I bought, and takes up a small cardboard box from the corner of the room.

"I did notice you'd left a few bits and pieces behind" he says, "I thought I'd gather them all together for you". He extends the box towards me. I pause for a moment, feeling ever so slightly insulted by the sight, before taking it from him. I didn't really expect much different, but I still felt as though I was being turfed out. A sore loser? No. Too proud? Most probably.

"Goodness. That's very kind of you" I comment, "It's good to know the bodies are being swept away already". Clegg laughs uneasily.

"You know how these things are" he replies. _Yes, I suppose I do_. The swiftness with which regimes changed in Britain did not suit people of pride such as myself. True, I allowed myself moments of humility every now and then, but I was generally quite the fan of dignity.

"I'll take the chair as well" I joke. Clegg blinks at me, a look of panic flashing in his eyes. After a few moments, during which I very nearly rolled my eyes, he laughs. It was a very nervous laugh, but he had at least caught on. "I'll take good care of it" he tells me, "I promise". Some consolation that was.

"Come now, Clegg, I wouldn't start making any more promises if I were you" I quip. Clegg's smile weakens even more. I didn't delight in his discomfort, but nor did I feel particularly guilty about provoking it.

"Don't be bitter" he reasons. I scoff.

"I'm not at all bitter" I reply, "Consider it advice from someone with experience". _Now you're being unkind_ , my mind corrects.

"You don't think I'm up to the job" Clegg says, a slightly hurt expression on his face, "Even if I do prove a terrible Deputy Prime Minister, I'll certainly try to improve on your record". My left eyebrow arches instinctively.

"I doubt you'll be around long enough to have that kind of impact" I shoot. I could definitely see the coalition lasting a full term, but I had a feeling Clegg would break before then. I already heard angry muttering from Liberal Democrats. It wouldn't all be rose gardens from now on.

"Is it any wonder people think you so cold?" Clegg states bluntly. He had criticised me for my lack of feeling when I had last encountered him, before the BBC's general election debate in Birmingham. _He's right_.

"I'm sorry" I sigh, "On some occasions, my natural instinct is to be short with people. I don't entirely know what's wrong with me, to be perfectly frank". My father's death and the result of the election had of course left me irritable, but the problem Clegg highlighted was one that stretched beyond those events. I wasn't sure why I often lashed out as I did.

"It's alright. We all have our flaws" Clegg smiles, and politely I smile back. I shift the box he had given me under my arm and extend my free hand. "I'll wish you well, then" I tell him earnestly. Clegg shakes it.

"And the same to you" he says. I nod to him and take one last look about the office, before making for the door. We all have our flaws. There was little love lost between myself and Nick Clegg, but I did at least value his ability to assess human nature. Twice now he had pointed out my coldness. I had failed to listen on the first occasion. Perhaps on the second I would actually begin to learn.

"Might I leave through the back?" I ask the young man whom had guided me through the building earlier. It seemed he had since recovered from his embarrassment. No doubt I hadn't made things easier for him.

"I'm afraid the back entrance is being used by delivery men at the moment. The Prime Minister is still moving in" he says. I hadn't yet spoken to David. I would have to at some point. Perhaps I would call him later on? He deserved my congratulations, at the very least. My personal crusade to become a better person may as well begin with a member of my own family.

"You're welcome to use the back entrance of number eleven" the man suggests, "I'll have your car brought round". I certainly didn't want to be seen leaving via the front door with a box of belongings under my arm. The tabloids had sufficient material for the time being.

"Thank you" I respond, "I'm grateful". The young man nods, and turns to guide me through. "No, no" I tell him, "You're very kind, but I think I can remember the way". Again, he nods, before scurrying away, presumably to call for my car. No. 11 Downing Street was, in a way, more familiar to me than No. 10. It took me no time at all to find the door that connected the two.

I spent a great deal of time here during Gordon's time as Chancellor, both as a former Chief Secretary to the Treasury and a friend. My visits became less and less frequent upon the appointment of Alastair Darling. I imagined I wouldn't visit at all now that power had shifted. I allow myself a momen to chuckle. _The lanky boy I had first met as a sixteen year old now occupied this place as the second most powerful man in the country_.

Quietly, I begin my short journey towards the back of the building. I was convinced such exits existed for precisely this purpose. Politicians never knew when they would have to escape.

Pace quick, I turn a corner, a few of my things clinking together in the box under my arm. I was keen on not disturbing the occupants of the rooms and offices I passed. I didn't want to linger, and any interruption would no doubt make my leaving all the worse.

Suddenly I collide with someone. I momentarily lose grip of the box, but manage to snatch it again before any of its contents can fall out. A few sheets of paper float to the floor, but they do not belong to me. "I'm ever so sorry" I cry, leaning down to retrieve them.

"No, no. It's entirely my fault". I almost freeze. _Great_. As was seemingly typical in my life, I had once again bumped into George at precisely the wrong time. I could curse fate, if such a thing existed that is.

"Well this certainly a surprise" George says, various different files in his hand, "It's as though we follow one another". I laugh at the thought and pass his fallen papers back to him. I had fought off my curiousity and not looked at what was printed upon them.

"I come to you as an opposition spy, I'm afraid" I jest.

"You're welcome to steal something" George responds, offering his papers to me, "Labour need the ideas". I roll my eyes, as I had done so many times previously at his little digs. The good humour we shared often made me forget that we were from opposing sides.

"By the way, I feel I should apologise for the way I behaved on polling night, at the BBC" I pipe up, "I was far too harsh". I had felt guilty about my treatment of him before Clegg reprimanded me just now. George had every right to be hostile towards me, but he never was. Aside from the fact that it was undeserved, I didn't want to be unkind to him.

"You've nothing to apologise for" George dismisses, "I caught you at a bad time".

"Even so, I was unfair" I insist, "You're only ever pleasant to me. True, you're rather mocking, but you're never unkind". I appreciated his mocking a great deal. It was nice to be able to dig at some and know that no offence was being taken, that I wouldn't be met with venom.

"Even if you are a machiavellian Brownite" George swipes, "I'm incapable of being rude to you". I arch an eyebrow at him and smirk. Machiavellian Brownite sounded like a terribly fun description.

"Ah, but you forget that I am in opposition now" I nudge, "You'll have to start learning". George was capable of putting his rivals down, but the idea of him taking a swipe at me from across the dispatch box was somewhat laughable. It certainly couldn't be done or received with a straight face.

"Yes, well, I'm quite used to swimming against that particular tide" he muses, more to himself than me, momentarily distracted by something. "Whatever do you mean?" I ask. His expression reminds me of that he sported at The Times' party, just before William Lewis appeared.

"Nothing, nothing" George decides, "I should probably let you get going". I glance back at my box of belongings and remind myself of my original mission. "Very kind of you" I say sarcastically, "Don't wreck the place, will you?". George shrugs and shoots me the usual boyish grin.

"I'm surprised it's not already in tatters" he quips, "That is usually the effect Labour have". I roll my eyes and begin to step past him.

"No doubt we'll stumble upon one another again soon" I say, "Hopefully not quite as painfully". George nods to that.

"I shall navigate all corridors with the upmost attention" he says, "Good bye, Liz". With that, he turns his eyes to his papers and walks away. I resume my own journey. No doubt my driver was becoming impatient by now. I had certainly spent much more time here than I had originally anticipated. Still, it was nice to have a moment of civility. Even if George did refuse to be critical of me, his colleagues were not so gentle. With so many problems facing the country, it was likely that I would soon find myself involved in a many a fiery exchange.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Spratt" I apologise for my driver as I climb into the back of the car, "I was distracted".

"It's quite alright, Ms Nelson" Spratt replies kindly, "Where to now?". I set the box Clegg had handed me down on the seat beside me and glance at my watch. It was still early in the day. There was much I could be getting on with.

"To Parliament, please" I instruct. A new term had begun, and I was now the interim leader of my party. I had new MPs to meet, and meetings to attend, and details to sift through. Gordon had been right when he had said that difficult times lay ahead. The next few weeks would no doubt be difficult, but for now I could at least spend the day in a happier mood than I had begun it.


	61. Leader of the Opposition.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth battles Cameron and Twitter, both for the first time.

**2nd June, 2010.**

**The House of Commons, London.**

"Have you joined Twitter yet, Ms Nelson?". I look up from my desk and frown. Before me were my notes for Prime Minister's Questions, the first session of the new parliament. I had stood in for Gordon on a few occasions, and was perfectly accustomed to debate, but I still found I was somewhat nervous.

"Twitter?" I ask. I was aware of what it was, of course, but had never thought about using it. I realised it was increasingly used by MPs in order to appear more accessible. "It's important that people can be in touch with you" Jonathan explains, "You'll be leading the party until September, after all". I simply blink at him.

"I'll do it, but you can deal with it all" I tell him plainly, feeling little enthusiasm for the idea, "You can send the twitters, or whatever it is". Jonathan frowns.

"They're tweets, Ms Nelson" he informs. I sometimes wondered whether I was letting the small group of young-ish MPs in the Commons down. People often presumed me to be some form of technological whiz given my 'youth', but in reality I had little idea.

"Tweets make for quite a twit" I say, "Post that". Jonathan sighs and pulls his phone from his pocket. For a moment I wonder whether he was about to. "It's a good job I created an account for you earlier" my aide says, walking across the office and standing beside me where I sat, "Look, you're already at eight thousand followers". I squint my eyes at the screen of his phone as he presents this great novelty to me.

"Interim Leader of the Labour Party, Member of Parliament for Henley, Mother" Jonathan reads to me. I tut.

"Why have you put 'mother' in the description?" I ask. Modern strategy seemed to be very much about small details. I failed to see how my having children might boost Labour's popularity in any way.

"To make you seem more human. People like mothers, especially when they're as powerful as you" Jonathan explains. I roll my eyes, but concede quietly. "What is that little message there?" I ask, pointing to the block of words partially cut off by Jonathan's phone screen.

"That is your first tweet" he says, scrolling down so that I was able to read it properly, "I thought PMQs would be a good first topic".

_'Looking forward to taking first PMQs of Parliament today. Labour will hold Coalition to account on promises made'._

I look up to Jonathan with disapproval. "There appear to be quite a few words missing from that" I correct. Jonathan looks almost pained. For him, no doubt, it was like trying to educate an old age pensioner on the works of Beyoncé. "Tweets have a character limit, Ms Nelson" he manages despite his apparent frustration, "We had to leave certain words out". Upon closer inspection, I notice other tweets beneath my own.

"Who are these people?" I ask, not recognising any of their names. One chap appeared to be named 'Tory Hunter'. Jonathan claimed this site made me more accessible. Accessible to whom exactly? Bizarre creatures such as 'Tory Hunter'.

"They are people who have replied to your tweet. Any one can do that, just as any one can favourite or retweet your tweet" Jonathan says, regaining his patience. Whilst the concept of 'retweeting' glides over my head somewhat, I do at least understand the concept of 'replying'. Making me open to crazed folk from God knows where didn't sound like a particularly good idea to me.

 _'Good luck!'_ one simple tweet read, to which I smile appreciatively. The next one isn't quite as polite.

 _'Destroy those Tory bastards! CaMORON needs that fuckin smirk wiped off his ham face!'_. I find I chuckle somewhat. I wondered whether I should have it printed and send to David's office as a welcoming gift. Or better still, I could frame it and hand it to him at Christmas.

 _'Piss off Blairite scum'_ was the third comment I see. I chuckle harder at that. Perhaps this Twitter thing would be more amusing than I first suspected. "May I?" I ask, and, perhaps with a hint of reluctance, Jonathan passes his phone to me.

 _'Sorry, sir, but that should be 'Piss off, Blairite scum'. Commas are important.'_ I type. Before Jonathan is able to stop me, I send it, really rather pleased with my work. "I think perhaps that is enough Twitter for today, Ms Nelson" he says, regaining control of his phone before I'm able to cause any further trouble.

"By the way, Ed Balls asked if he could be allowed onto your PMQs prep team" he pipes up, changing subject entirely. I scoff at thought. "I'm rather keen on appearing competent, in all honesty" I reply.

"He can be quite the bruiser" Jonathan ponders.

"I've been debating David Cameron over family dinners for the past twenty years" I say with a small smirk, "I think I know how to take him on".

* * *

"ELIZABETH NELSON". John Bercow nods to me from where he sits, and from the benches behind me I hear cheers. I did feel some butterflies as I stood up to the dispatch box, but my confidence outweighed my nerves.

"Thank you, Mr Speaker" I say, "May I firstly associate myself and my party with the condolences expressed by the Prime Minister regarding the soldiers who have died in Afghanistan in the past week. Corporal Stephen Curley and marine Scott Taylor were incredibly brave, and I know the whole house will join me in sending our deepest sympathies to their families". My eyes to turn to where David sits, face coloured a faint red. I could tell my his voice that he was nervous, not perhaps of me, but of underperforming.

"May I also take this opportunity to congratulate the Honourable Gentleman on his appointment as Prime Minister" I add, to the mild delight of Tory backbenchers, "And indeed his recent marriage to the Right Honourable Member for Sheffield Hallam". I look to Nick Clegg and wink as MPs behind me laugh. They did remind me of a married couple at times. The divorce was inevitable, of course.

Once the House has calmed again, I press on. "Now, Mr Speaker, one issue which I have raised before in this house is the prosecution of rape" I speak, "Typically, it is only after a number of incidents that a defendant is reported and brought to court, with previous victims often encouraged to come forward."

"By making rape defendants anonymous, as is the government's plan, does the Prime Minister realise that he will make it harder to bring rapists to justice?" I finish. It was a heavy question, but an important one. I saw little room for pathetic point-scoring in this particular session. I was most grateful. Perhaps the odd jibe would be pass.

"I know the Honourable Lady cares about this issue a great deal, as do I" David answers as he steps forward, "I think it's an outrage that rape prosecution levels are so low, and we need to work with the police and victims to ensure that justice is reached. However, on the issue of anonymity, I would point out that the Home Affairs Select Committee have examined this closely and decided that there was a case for anonymity between arrest and charge. I understand her case, but I think this represents a good way forward".

Once more I am called. "I'm grateful for the Prime Minister's recognition of my point" I reply, perfectly calm, "But does he not also recognise that to single out rape defendants, as is his plan, implies to juries in these cases that the victim is not to be believed? Surely this is a very damaging message to send out?". My colleagues nod, whilst from across the chamber I hear some muttering.

"I'm afraid I don't accept that" David responds, prompting some quiet muttering from my own benches, "As I say, this was examined very closely by the Home Affairs Select Committee. This is a proposal for a limited expansion of anonymity, which will be open for debate in this house. This is about increasing the number of successful prosecutions and sending more rapists to jail, something which we all agree on". Yes, it most certainly was. Yet I find my cousin's answer, as was often typical, to be most inadequate. I aim to make that clear.

"Mr Speaker, that is a wholly disappointing answer" I speak plainly, "It shows that the Prime Minister has little understanding of this issue, and cannot see why this proposal will be a most damaging one". My MPs give their 'hear hears' and nod in agreement, whilst David simply looks back at me sporting an expression of unease.

"Another proposal I believe the government should reconsider is the married man's tax allowance" I go on, grateful that my first topic had been dealt with so maturely, "It would cost half a billion pounds a year and would only go to only one in three couples. Can the Prime Minister tell us exactly how this will cut the deficit?". I notice several of my front bench colleagues smirking as David stands up to respond. I glance across to the benches opposite with curiosity, finding it a most odd sight to see Liberal Demcrats mingling so easily with Conservatives. What marvellous actors they must be.

"If we can recognise Christmas parties and the parking of bicycles in the tax system, why can't we recognise marriage?" David shoots, earning him many cheers from his backbenches. Clegg sits quietly beside him, a small hint of sadness glinting in his eye. And I thought the two of them got along to splendidly.

"The Prime Minister is clearly unaware that this proposal will not keep couples together" I reply, "He is, however, aware that it will keep his backbenchers happy". David shakes his head whilst my colleagues titter. "I shall ask my question again" I add, "How will this move cut the deficit?". I decided I should probably get used to non-answers. This was politics, after all.

"We know that the breaking up of couples is an expensive thing" the Prime Minister argues, to which I can't help but roll my eyes, "By encouraging couples to stay together, we save money. We recognise so many things in the tax system. Why not marriage?". Rather a pathetic answer, I assess.

"Does the Prime Minister honestly believe that a three pound per week tax cut, costing half a billion pounds, will keep couples together?" I answer, eyes darting briefly in the direction of Clegg, "I note the Deputy Prime Minister is looking very glum. Perhaps on this issue Nick agrees with _me_ ". Clegg gives a small smile, whilst my colleagues chuckle.

"Either that or his own marriage with the Prime Minister is beginning to fall apart".

* * *

"That was wonderfully fought" Jack Straw smiles as we leave the chamber. I return his smile and hold my head high, confident that I had done a good job. "I particularly appreciated the digs about Cameron and Clegg" Jack adds. Their partnership gave for easy pickings, in all honesty. The image of the two men emerging together in that famous rose garden like a gay couple was still very much fresh in the minds of most.

"You have much more front bench experience than Cameron" Harriet muses from my side, "I think that really showed today". I had been in the Commons far longer than my cousin, and the additional benefit (if one might call it that) of actually knowing him added to my experience. He wasn't an opponent to be underestimated, of course.

"He's far better at it than you might care to admit" I reply, "Not that it's always easy to show".

"No?" asks Jack.

"Oh, certaintly not" I tell him, a smirk on my lips, "I can't allow him to think that he is in any way better than me".


	62. Tension.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ominous message from a stranger turns out to be the least of Elizabeth's worries.

**4th June, 2010.**

**Nairn, Scotland.**

That, as they say, was that. My father is finally laid to rest, perhaps sooner than he should have been. I found some solace in the knowledge that he would be at peace, away from the regular pains and tribulations of life. My mother, understandably, struggled to find such comfort.

She remains by his grave for quite some time, whispering quietly. The rest of us decide it best to give her peace, and so we back away towards a clear space nearer to the church. A large number of people had attended the funeral, but only a select few attended the burial, as I felt was proper. "Your father will rest now, Elizabeth" Father John tells me softly, "He is in very safe hands". I give him a small smile and turn away. I was no great believer in religion, but I liked to think there was some world up there where my father might rest.

"Alex?" I call, and immediately the boy stood several feet away turns. He was easily as tall as I by now, with a thick head of curls and a thin face. "Yes, Mother?" he asks, adjusting his tie slightly as if struggling to breathe. I had never told him to call me 'Mother'. True, I addressed my own mother in that way, but in 2010 I sometimes felt it sounded rather old-fashioned, especially when said in Alex's slightly clipped accent. Eton had given him that, no doubt.

"Do you know where your Uncle Nevin is?" I ask, glancing about the churchyard to little avail. He had seemingly disappeared shortly after the conclusion of the burial. He was frightfully pale, and too distant to cry. "I saw him by the pond" Alex tells me, walking closer.

"The pond?" I ask.

"There is a pond just through those trees over there" my son informs me, pointing to the mass of green up ahead, "Father John said that the Church keeps it as a space for quiet". Before I set off, I take a moment to adjust his collar. His near constant fiddling with his tie had altered it yet again. "In that case, I'll leave him be" I decide, "You're okay, aren't you?".

"Not really" Alex tells me plainly, "But I will be". He glances over to his grandfather's grave once more and sighs heavily. He would be okay. Both of us.

"I've left Emily with Sam" cousin David, rightfully taking a break from his new responsibilities, informs me quietly. My daughter was still only young, and had taken it all very hard. I had always found Samantha Cameron to be very kind, if rather protective of her husband.

"Say, Father John told me to pass something onto you" David adds, "He told me that a chap named Angus had approached him shortly before we arrived at the church and told him to give you this". He slips an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to me. I frown instinctively. Given that we were in Scotland, there were quite a few Angus' running about. I couldn't say I knew any of them particularly well.

"Alex, darling, you musn't fiddle with that tie" I sigh, noticing my son yet again adjusting it out of the corner of my eye.

"I never liked ties" David muses, "Particularly bow ties. It was quite possibly the worst thing about attending Eton". Alex nods.

"The uniform can be quite stifling" he replies. I could remember having to wear a bonnet at my own school, but I imagined tails and bow ties were even worse. I certainly didn't envy the uniform, no matter how smart it might be.

As my son and cousin continue to complain together, I open the envelope handed me to me and withdraw a letter. The words upon it were hastily written in black ink. This mysterious Angus fellow clearly wasn't a professional of any sort.

_'And so the warmonger becomes the leader. Watch yourself, Nelson'_

I'm tempted to laugh. What a waste of ink. Such a generic threat did nothing to evoke fear within me. Out of curiosity, I glance over to the entrance of the graveyard, perhaps expecting some depraved soul to be standing there staring menacingly. "What is it?" David asks, noting the amusement in my eye. I pass the letter to him. Rather than find it funny as I had done, David instantly looks panicked.

"Should we pass it onto the police?" he suggests, eyes widening. Alex frowns and looks between the two of us with a look of confusion. "Pass what onto the police? What is it?" he asks. Immediately I take the letter from my cousin and tuck it into my pocket. I didn't doubt my son's maturity, but I wouldn't risk frightening him.

"Nothing, dear" I lie, "I think David meant the solicitor. It's just business concerning the will". David looks at me with disapproving eyes, whilst Alex looks sceptical. He was a very bright boy, after all.

"Oh, yes. A small error on my part" David says stiffly. I suppose he knew I would most probably kick him if he told the truth. I often wondered whether we were in fact still children. Some practices never died.

"You can't blame our poor cousin" I comment, "He is a Conservative". I knew my father would have understood the joke. Naturally, politics had no place at events such as this, but I could almost hear his chuckle. 'I'd rather have it away with Alex Salmond than go red' he would have said, or something of the sort. I knew he would be thrilled to know that Lady Thatcher had attended his funeral. They never did get to join forces in the Lords.

"Mother" Alex says, worry in his eyes, "What would you say if I were to tell you that I, well, _sympathised_ with the Conservatives?". His dark brown eyes are met with my steely green ones. I couldn't have heard him right.

"Yes, well" I clear my throat, "Why don't you and David go to the car. I'll go to your grandmother". Before anything else can be said, I usher the two away. They could keep one another company whilst I talked to my mother. If she wanted to be talked to, that is. I didn't feel I could leave her on her own for too long.

I notice David puts his arm around my son's shoulders as they walk away, perfectly comfortable in one another's company. Sympathised. I couldn't quite imagine any child of my sympathising with the Conservatives. Not that I had ever tried to enforce my own beliefs on them.

I dismiss such thoughts for now, as they felt rather insignificant as I approached my father's grave once more. Still my mother stood near, head bowed, handkerchief held over her mouth. "Mother?" I call softly, stopping some feet away.

"I'm sorry. I'll come away shortly" she replies hoarsely. I find myself pained by the sorrow in her voice. Losing a father was difficult enough. To see my mother fall apart was heartbreaking. "No, no. You can take as long as you like" I tell her. It would be entirely wrong to rush her away.

"I can't leave him" Mother manages, "I can't go back to England". My father had always made it clear that he wished to be buried in Scotland. It very much remained a part of him, even after so many years in Oxfordshire. I was glad that he at least retained his great love for Scotland. I appreciated the country's beauty, but I felt most grounded in England. It had already been made clear to me that my accent had changed considerably. I could now only boast a slight Scottish 'twinge', as Fraser would say.

"That's okay" I reassure her, stepping forward and holding her hand gently, "Nevin and I can look after the house. You can stay in Nairn for as long as you wish". Our Scottish home was grander than even our English one, and would give my mother the comfort she needed.

"I know it's probably weak of me, to keep weeping" my Mother sobs, dabbing at the corners of her bloodshot eyes with her handkerchief, "But I'm not sure how I'll cope without him. I gulp, feeling myself well up once more.

"You're not weak, Mother, you're very strong. You have to be. Father would want you to be strong" I tell her softly, "That's how you'll get through it. That's how we'll all get through it". I feel her squeeze my hand. She takes a deep breath and wipes away the last of her tears.

"I'm glad I was able to spend so much time by his side, even until the very end" she tells me quietly, and once more I am hit by guilt for not being with him, "Oh, I did cherish him so". She begins to breathe heavily again, and for a moment I worry she is about to break down again, yet she finds a way to regain her composure. She looks once more at my father's grave, before tightening her grip on my hand and leading us away.

"I do hope you find someone again, Liz" my mother sighs as we slowly make our way through the graveyard, "Your father wouldn't like for you to be on your own for the rest of time". I didn't think it right to tell her about my dalliance with William Lewis from The Telegraph. She would only disapprove if I did.

"I'm quite content as I am" I reply, not feeling any great sense of loneliness, "I have all the friends and family I could possibly want". My mother shakes her head.

"I know you're always keen to busy yourself with your work, but everyone needs a companion" she decides. Had it been any other day, I might have disagreed with her. Today, of course, I decide to simply accept her greater wisdom.

"I doubt there is any one out there who is willing to put up with me" I joke.

"Nonsense. You'll know when it is you've found the right person" Mother dismisses, "And when you do, you must promise me that you'll cherish them as much I cherished your father". I sigh and nod. There was little point in conflict. I knew my mother truly meant what she said. I found it somewhat difficult to picture myself 'cherishing' any partner. I would like to say I had fallen out of practice, given how long it had been since my divorce, but I wasn't entirely sure I had been a very 'cherishing' person to begin with. Indeed, my apparent lack of care had cost me both of my life's greatest loves, the latest of whom would never return.

I am sharply reminded of the lesson Nick Clegg had taught me. _Be kinder_.

* * *

Fraser inspects the bread before him with those ever searching eyes of his. "Are you quite sure this bread hasn't gone mouldy?" he asks me as I enter the kitchen. I had been sure to avoid the sandwiches set out for our guests.

"I've no idea. Helena made them" I tell him, learned enough to avoid anything made by my younger sister, "They should come with a warning sign". Fraser shudders and backs away from what was left of the loaf. "Has she fed mouldy sandwiches to Baroness Thatcher?" he asks, the slightest hint of amusement in his eye. I fight back a grin. Our father would not at all approve.

"No doubt she's used to foul tastes" I ponder, "Given how many ministers she's gobbled up in her time". A loud knock on the front door catches my attention. Helena glides out of the adjacent sitting room and hurries along to see who was calling on us.

"Mother has gone to bed, by the way" I tell my brother. Grief had exhausted her. Given how dedicated she had been in her care for my father in his final years, she deserved the rest. "And Nevin is pacing about in the study" Fraser informs me gravely. I hadn't heard our brother utter a single word since the funeral. Many of our guests had asked after him, but he refused to show.

"Elizabeth? Fraser?" I hear Helena call. We both turn, and find that she is now stood in the doorway of the kitchen, face paled somewhat. "What is it?" I ask. She steps aside, and in walks a fairly young man of medium height and build with thin red hair and light green eyes. It takes me a moment to register him. Such was the extent of his disappearance.

For, after month upon month of no contact, there stood my youngest brother, Ian.

"Hello" he offers, as straight-faced as ever. He never was a particularly happy person. You might think he would at least try to muster up a smile for his own siblings. "How have you been?" he goes on.

"Well, thank you" I reply curtly. Fraser simply nods to him. Kindness, I remember, kindness. "What about you?" I ask politely. Ian jerks his head and manages a very small smile indeed.

"I'm well, thank you" he replies, "I'm-". Someone walks in behind him, apparently oblivious to his presence. Nevin.

Seemingly distracted by his own thoughts, he places an empty tumbler on the kitchen table and searches around for something. "Nevin?" Helena beckons gingerly. Our eldest brother glances up, tired eyes barely focusing on anything. And then they widen, and instantly I gulp. The atmosphere in the kitchen was, suddenly, an awful one.

"You're alive then" Nevin says, studying Ian from afar. Ian simply looks at him in silence. They had never been overly close, but recent events had fractured their relationship even more. None of us were particularly pleased with Ian, but it was Nevin who genuinely disliked him.

"I don't suppose you could have bothered to turn up at the funeral?" he spits, "It was only your damn father. No one important". Ian sighs and looks to us all in turn, as if looking for any sign of support. He would find none of it in me. He had given no reason for not attending. That I wouldn't overlook, certainly not soon.

"I realise that nothing I say will excuse it" Ian begins.

"You have something right, then" Nevin responds sharply. My eyes dart towards the doorway again. There is someone lurking about in the corridor, but I cant quite work out who it is. I am distracted by the emergence of yet another family member from the door connecting to the living room.

"Oh" David says, looking between us all with a perplexed expression, "Hello". He narrows his eyes slightly when he notices Ian and nods. "Good to see you" he says, smiling weakly.

"I believe congratulations are in order" Ian says, and internally I groan, "On becoming Prime Minister, that is. Though I can't say I'm too thrilled". Ian had forever been the family revolutionary. His near-communist ways had led to many an argument.

"Oh, don't start" Nevin growls, still watching his youngest sibling with blazing eyes. I clear my throat and look once more in the direction of the doorway. "Say, who is that lurking about?" I ask, "Did they come with you?". Ian nods and beckons to whomever it is hanging about in the corridor. I wish I hadn't asked when I see who it is.

"What are you doing here?" I cry. The others frown at me, clearly clueless as to whom this person was. "Do you know one another?" Helena asks, alarmed. I nod, still staring at the man.

"Rob Campion" I announce, "Otherwise known as the man who tried to unseat me in 2005". I still remembered the speech he had given at the count that night.

_"I don't blame Ms Nelson for my brother's death. Rather like William, I don't believe her heart was really in it, yet some sense of duty, perhaps to Mr Blair, led her into it. Ms Nelson, all I ask from you is an apology. An apology for your involvement, and an admission that what your government did was wrong. It won't take away the pain I feel entirely, but it will give satisfaction not just to me, but to the families of all of those who were killed in that awful war"_

I had given him the apology he desired, and hadn't expected any thanks from him, yet I hadn't warmed to him that night. I had thought Iraq entirely behind me. Yet this man's reappearance stirred all kinds of unhappy memories.

"The brother of the soldier who died in Iraq?" Fraser asks, "But why is he here?". I look to Ian for that answer. I suspected what it might be, but I didn't at all like it.

And then my suspicions are confirmed. Ian steps towards Campion and takes his hand in his own. "He is with me" my younger brother says defiantly. I sigh and look away. It wasn't put off by the fact that they were both men, given that I had always been a supporter of equal rights, but I did have reservations about my own brother courting someone who held me in utter contempt.

"This is ridiculous" Nevin grumbles.

"Is it?" Ian replies instantly. I notice Helena back away towards the door. I couldn't blame her for wanting to make her escape. This wasn't at all a pleasant spectacle. "After months of no word, you waltz in here with your boyfriend, someone who happens to hate your sister's guts, and expect us to be one happy family again?" Nevin says scathingly. Ian only tightens his grip on Campion's hand.

"You know Father would have-".

"Don't you dare mention Father. You couldn't even be bothered to attend his funeral, don't pretend to care for him now".

"If you could just listen-".

"I've no reason to listen to you".

"How very generous of you".

"Don't get sarcastic with me, you jumped up prick".

It was like watching a verbal tennis match, with one person bellowing to the other. I was surprised none of our guests in the adjacent room had popped in to see what the commotion was about.

"I think perhaps we all need to calm down" David says, ever the mediator. Ian tuts at him loudly. "Do stay out of it. I don't need interventions from the likes of you" he says bitterly, to which David's eyes flash with anger.

"Ian, you're behaving appallingly. Don't start on your own cousin, too" I interject. To my frustration, he tuts at me too. Im almost tempted to slap him.

"You're just as bad" Ian denounces.

"Oh, just fuck off" Nevin fires, "We've managed quite well without you thus far, so why don't you take your nancy of a boyfriend away and leave us in peace?". I sigh quietly and look to my feet. Nancy of a boyfriend. I knew immediately that Nevin didn't mean it, and it wasn't the most overtly offensive of sentences, but it was easy to see how it might be interpreted.

"Well then" Ian says, staring at his elder brothe with furious eyes, "I shall disturb you no longer". He turns and makes his way out of the kitchen, Campion. Before Campion himself leaves, he turns and glares me at me. He had claimed, all those years ago, that he didn't blame me personally for the death of his brother in Iraq, yet he seemed to hate me all the same. I didn't like him, but my feelings could not stretch to hate.

"Ian!" Helena calls, persuing him down the corridor towards the front door. Nevin seizes a fresh whisky bottle from a kitchen counter and marches out. A few moments later, I hear the door of the study slam shut. No doubt that was the last I would be seeing of him for this day.

"Goodness me" Lady Thatcher speaks, wandering into the kitchen. Of all the guests in the neighbouring room, it was bound to be her who would come to investigate. "Is everything alright, Baroness Thatcher?" Fraser asks politely.

"Quite" Margaret replies, "But I heard raised voices. Very raised indeed". She didn't need to know about the exact nature of the incident, but it would be silly to cover up the fact that there had been an argument.

"It reminds me" Lady Thatcher mumbles. David raises an eyebrow at her and approaches almost cautiously. He did often behave like an awestruck puppy in front of her. "Reminds you of what, Margaret?" I ask curiously.

"Of my cabinet" she says, the faintest hints of a reminiscent smile forming on her face, "Goodness me, did they like to shout. Of course, there was always someone who would stand up to them". I can't help but smile.

"And who was that?" David queries. Margaret looks to him and smiles, a glint in her aging eyes. "Why, my dear Mr Cameron" she says, "It was me".


	63. Suspicions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Labour's leadership election is underway, and Elizabeth struggles to stay out of it.

**6th June, 2010.**

**House of Commons, London.**

My original plan was to close nominations at the end of May. Any MP who failed to reach the required thirty-three signatures would not make it onto the ballot, and those who did could begin their campaigns. Diane Abbott, however, disagreed.

"We need more time" she had complained. In all honesty, I would have been very grateful if she had been kept off the ballot paper. I would have ignored her completely had my Ed not aired the same concerns shortly afterwards. Even if it did mean I would have deal with a Diane Abbott leadership debate, Ed would at least have a chance to get onto the ballot.

"Are you going to nominate anyone?" Jack Straw asks me casually. We were both party veterans, and so whilst the usual crowd dashed about Westminster searching for nominations, he and I usually sat back and talked in my office. Gordon had retreated to Scotland, Peter crept about the Lords, and Tony had retired from the Commons years ago. It was nice to spend time with someone from the old days.

"I'm staying out of this one" I say, feeling it was my duty as interim leader to do so, "What about you?".

"Abbott" Jack tells me, "Only to widen the debate". I lean back in my chair and grin. That seemed a reasonable excuse. So long as Jack hadn't drifted towards the hardline, slightly barmy left-wing wing of the party.

"At least that prat John McDonnell has withdrawn" Jack sighs. I nod in agreement. McDonnell was, arguably, worse than Abbott. Abbott was at least well-spoken.

"He tried to threaten me once, whilst we were planning for Iraq" I tell him, smiling despite the mention of _that_ event, " _Tried_ being the operative word". I am suddenly reminded of something. I sit up in my chair and reach into the pocket of the blazer I have draped over the back. From it I withdraw the piece of paper David had passed onto me after the funeral.

"Speaking of threats" I say, passing it to Jack. I'm glad when he doesn't react as David had done, with abject alarm. "They haven't spelt out the words using newspaper cuttings" Jack says, feigning a tone of disappointment, "They're not trying hard enough". He passes the paper back to me, and with a small chuckle I read it once more.

_'And so the warmonger becomes the leader. Watch yourself, Nelson'_

"I've been told I should alert the police, but I fail to see why" I say, "Even if this person is a real threat, they're in Scotland for goodness sake". Ed had been somewhat astounded when I told him I wasn't worried. If those around me continued to panic, I would act. But only then. I did not fear the author of that mysterious message one bit.

"I doubt any one is brave enough to go for you" Jack chuckles, getting to his feet, "Still, I should probably be off. I've constituency work to get on with". I nod to him and smile.

As he leaves, Jonathan enters. He wears a somewhat strained expression. "What's wrong?" I ask, predicting the reason to be a rather tiring one. I had been hoping to finish the day a little earlier, but something told me I would not be so lucky.

"Andy Burnham is coming to see you" Jonathan says. I frown at him and glance down at my diary in case I had made a mistake. "He did call earlier" I remind my aide.

"Yes, but David Miliband heard that he was coming, and so he decided he would call by too" Jonathan groans. I hoped the rest of the contest wouldn't be this trivial. I could imagine them all fighting one another on the staircase as they raced to my office, desperate to get the first word with me. What Miliband was hoping to achieve, I did not know. Andy and I had been meaning to talk about policy, not leadership.

"And then Ed Balls saw David Miliband heading in this direction" Jonathan continues, "To cut a long story short, you now have three of the five leadership contenders waiting outside". I blink at him. It would be unfair of me to send them all away, wouldn't it? 

"Send them in" I sigh, mentally preparing myself for what was bound to ensue. Jonathan looks unsure.

"All of them?" he asks. I take another moment to think, momentarily doubting whether this would be a good idea. At least by seeing them all together I would save time and avoid the appearance of favouritism. Balls and Miliband might get the wrong impression if I admitted only Andy.

"I don't envy you" Jonathan comments, "Good luck". And with that, he leans opens my office door and beckons the MPs waiting outside. First in the pack, predictably, is David Miliband. He eyes the plaque on my door as I walks in, as if imagining his own name upon it. Andy, the youngest of the three, enters with a much brighter expression, whilst Balls plods along behind.

"Do sit down, gentlemen" I invite, as Jonathan brings two extra chairs into the room. "So what brings you all here?" I ask. Andy gives me a small smile.

"Our meeting was already arranged" he points out, to which I nod. Balls' looks to his colleague sharply. "Meeting? About what?" he questions. Andy looks back silently, eyes widening slightly in alarm. I raise my hands in defence.

"Andy and I were only going to discuss policy" I state, for it it the truth. Miliband eyes me sceptically.

"Policy which will be set out by the next party leader" he pipes up. I am quite tempted to roll my eyes. It seemed I would be unable to avoid this sort of thing after all. I had already stated that I would keep out of the election, yet I was still perceived to have a preference.

"Policy which is proposed and discussed by our members" I correct, "And then passed onto figures such as myself for further discussion". Andy nods, but the two men beside him grumble under their breath. They could be a ridiculous bunch sometimes. I had objected at the time, but I was now beginning to see that the satirists' portrayal of me as the Party's tired mother was entirely accurate.

"Gentlemen, I want to make this absolutely clear" I say firmly, looking at each of them in turn, "I shan't be endorsing any of you. In this, I am impartial. So do think again the next time you rush up to see me because you're worried that I'm paying more attention to one of your fellow competitors". It was directed at Balls and Miliband more than Andy, given that he was the only one of them who had a legitimate reason to be here.

"We're not idiots, Elizabeth" Miliband fires. I raise an eyebrow at him and smirk. "That is certainly debatable" I return. From the corner of the corner of the room I hear Jonathan snort. Miliband turns in his seat and glares at him.

"It's obvious that you like some of us more than others" he goes on, "You want neither me nor Ed to be party leader. Admit it". _For once, you're right_. You must of course understand that, to me, 'I am impartial' meant 'I am partial, but only in private'. I most certainly did like some candidates more than others, but I still refused to pick _a_ side.

"I'll admit that I'm not too fond of you, Miliband, just as you're not too fond of me" I reply bluntly, "But I wish you well, all the same. As I say, I am entirely impartial". I doubted it would satisfy Miliband, but it was something. I had at least been partially honest with him. It was abundtly clear that we didn't like one another.

"And as for you, Balls" I say, turning to the irritating man himself, "Whilst there is clearly no love lost between the two of us, I wish you well too". Balls nods curtly and turns his grumpy face elsewhere. I find I simply have to smile to Andy. He had been my friend for God knows how many years by now. It made me rather proud to think that he had begun his political career in my employ.

"Now, gentlemen, I know I am the dazzling lady in red" I jest, "But you needn't be so jealous of others coming to see me". Andy grins. Balls manages a small smile. Miliband simply stares.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I believe Andy and I have things to discuss" I finish, "Unless the two of you would like to stay in case we start plotting?". Balls and Miliband get to their feet. Message received, it seemed. Jonathan moves from his seat in the corner and takes one of the vacated seats. Perhaps I might finish my work early after all. The sooner we got onto actual business, the better.

"Oh, and Miliband?" I call, just as he reaches my office door, "You might find yourself sat in this seat one day, but I at this point in time I am your leader. Don't question me in that way again". I fix him with a sharp green stare. From the corner of my eye, I see Balls smiling most smugly.

And with that, both men are gone. I could picture them bickering as they returned to their offices. I would simply leave them to it. I had work to do, after all.

* * *

Five o'clock and I am done for the day. There were days when I didn't leave until at least eight. Such was the nature of the job. I was currently trying to balance party responsibilities with my constituency work. The rather troubling matter of a crumbling wall outside the library in Henley had arisen, and I was charged with dealing with it, along with my role in preventing the crumbling of the Labour Party.

"Have you anything planned for this evening?" I ask Jonathan casually, slipping my coat on. "I thought I'd stay in and watch Downton Abbey" he replies, yawning behind his hand despite our early finish.

"Downton Abbey?" I ask. I rarely paid attention to television these days. I provided some background noise when I was alone, but rarely was its content captivating. "It's a new period drama on ITV. It airs on a Sunday, but I've episodes to catch up on" Jonathan tells me, "It's about an aristocratic family called the Crawleys. It's much more interesting than I make it sound". I raise an eyebrow. I did have some appreciation for history. Perhaps I might give it a go?

"How is your little Twitter project going?" I ask as we begin to make our way through the corridors of Westminster towards our exit, "Am I an internet sensation yet?". Jonathan whips his phone from his pocket and presses one or two buttons before presenting it to me.

"You now have seventeen-thousand followers" he informs me, "People rather liked you at Prime Minister's Questions". Clearly Jonathan was managing this business well. I had little to do with it all, but occasionally he would coax me into 'tweeting' something myself. The limitation on characters irritated me. 'Paper has no word limit' I would argue, ever the old lady in disguise.

"Oh dear, I think you're about to be ambushed" Jonathan warns, nodding to a figure waiting up ahead. I had always been an excellent target for ambush. I had learnt to take interruptions in my stride. "So long as they don't hold me up" I speak quietly, "I'm really rather intent on getting home".

"Are you now struck on Downton Abbey too?" Jonathan grins. I tut at him and slow my pace as I get closer to the figure waiting up ahead.

"Ms Nelson" they say, stepping forward attentively, "I have been told to pass some messages onto you". She holds extends her hands and holds three folded pieces of paper out towards me. _Three_. Would I never be left alone?

"Thank you" I say, taking them from her, "Miss...?". I couldn't say I had ever seen the girl before. Clearly she was a new Commons employee. I saw so many dashing about that it was incredibly difficult to recognise them. "Campion" the girl answers. I smile at her politely, my mind busy exploring what this collection of messages might hold. I nod to her and continue my journey along the corridor.

"You thought these people might ring the office" I comment, "Rather than calling the Commons". I pass two of the messages to Jonathan so that I can focus on one at a time.

_E. Nelson,_

_Dr. Pike._

_Check-up due._

An odd thing to call about here, I assess. I'd have thought it much more appropriate to call me on my personal number, as my surgery often did. Perhaps they had tried to contact to me but failed to get through. Whatever the case, a check-up was undoubtedly due. It had been far too long since I had last visited a doctor. Whilst cardio myopathy, the condition I had been diagonosed with quite some time ago now, was not particularly threatening, my father's passing had caused me to be extra vigilant.

"This one is written on Downing Street paper" Jonathan informs me, inspecting one of the remaining messages with curious eyes. "Open it" I tell him, as he passes me the other. I could trust Jonathan. It couldn't be something too secretive it was allowed to be written down by a nameless civil servant. Perhaps David wanted me to call by for something?

Whilst Jonathan fulfills his curiosity, I turn my attention to the remaining message.

_E. Nelson,_

_Tony Little._

_Ring college ASAP._

I knew Tony Little to be the head master of Eton. We had spoken on a number of occasions, but never had he tried to reach me in this way. One often heard of summons from head masters. It usually meant one's child was in trouble. I dismiss the idea immediately. My Alex was not the sort who got into trouble. Perhaps fiddling with ties was a punishable offence at Eton.

"This is bizarre" Jonathan muses from my side. I tuck away the other two notes into my pocket and raise an eyebrow at him. I already had two phone calls to make when I arrived home. I wasn't keen on the idea of a third.

"It's from the Chief of Staff at number eleven" Jonathan goes on, "But this is most peculiar". I gently take the message from him and read it myself. I could already anticipate who was involved here.

_E. Nelson,_

_Mr. Osborne would like to speak with you._

_Tea?_

I laugh, confusion beginning to set in. This really was bizarre, but I had correctly guessed who the culprit was. The 'Tea?' line almost certainly came from him.

"Well that's slightly inappropriate" I sigh, folding the message up and adding it to the small collection forming in my pocket, "I can't be seen hanging around with a _Conservative_ ". Jonathan grins.

"Guilt by association" he adds, "I just can't understand why the Chancellor would want to see you".

"Perhaps he wishes to learn from my great economic expertise" I joke. Something told me this proposed meeting would not involve lengthy talk of economics. If it was to be a strictly professional meeting, I would think of it differently. But knowing George, it would be but a casual chat over a pot of tea. It wasn't as though he had any great task to do...

"Call his office in the morning and tell them I'm busy" I tell my aide, relief washing over me as we finally reach an exit, "Invent some pressing situation. I wouldn't want them to think I'm dismissing Geor-, Osborne simply because of who he is". Jonathan nods and steps ahead to hold the door open for me.

"You needn't bother with being delicate" he replies, "George Osborne doesn't have feelings".

"Come now, don't be rude" I cuss. Jonathan simply blinks at me. I turn my eyes towards the Thames, which continues to lap on nearby, watching as  glints upon its murky waters. "I'll see you tomorrow then, Ms Nelson" Jonathan says.

"Yes, of course" I reply, finding to myself to be quite distracted of a sudden, "Goodnight".


	64. A Most Mandelsonian Conversation.

**7th June, 2010.**

**Le restaurant De Paul, London.**

I knew I was being watched from the moment I exited the car. Some where across the street, no doubt, were an army of undercover journalists, cameras at the ready, driven on capturing as many unflattering photos of me as they could. The chances of them getting any were slim. No photograph of me was unflattering.

I find Peter is already waiting for me when I enter the café. It wasn't a typical corner-of-the-street place, it was a little slice of France, with its impeccably smart staff and its even more impeccably delicious food. "This is rather swanky" I comment as I sit down beside him. Peter raises an eyebrow.

"Are you sure you want to be photographed in quite so posh a place?" he asks, and whilst I know he is joking I can already imagine how it might be interpreted by the press. "Elitism and all that" Peter adds.

"Says the Peer" I retort, "Perhaps we should have settled for a greasy, rundown place on the edge of the city?". Peter takes up his cup and saucer and takes a sip. I beckon a waiter, quite desperate for some tea of my own.

"There is nothing wrong with a little extravagance" Peter states, "Besides, the media already have plenty of ammunition on the rich bastard front". He reaches down into the bag at his feet and withdraws a newspaper, fresh and crisp.

"I never took you for a Sun reader" I assess as Peter passes it to me. He reaches once more for his tea and sighs quietly. "Flick to page four" he instructs. With a small sense of dread, I do so. The headline that greets me takes aback somewhat.

_NOT-SO-GOOD QUEEN BESS? NELSON IS AS RICH AS ROYALTY AFTER INHERITANCE GAIN_

Beneath the words, spelled out as per in thick black letters, was a sub-heading reading 'But will she pay tax on it?'. I am quite tempted to tear the entire page up and stuff its remnants down the throat of its editor. "Try not to burst a blood vessel" Peter says serenely, noting the irritation in my eyes, "We can't have your blood ruining the décor".

"Labour's red-headed bombshell is set to inherit a whopping sixty-three million after the death of her father, The Sun can report today" I read, internally seething as the words pass my lips, "Sir Douglas Nelson, a highly successful businessman and Thatcherite stalwart, who died shortly before the general election, has divided his fortune between his five children, with Ms Nelson a great beneficiary". I fold the paper up again and essentially throw it to Peter, who hides it his bag once more.

"Where do they hear these things? All of that was strictly confidential" I grumble, tapping my fingers on the table in an attempt to vent my anger in some way, "I do loathe them, you know". Even when The Sun had been on my party's side, I had not been a great fan. I did worry for the intelligence of our population, given how many people bought it on a daily basis. "I doubt many will try to make political capital out of it" Peter reassures, "Given that it's inheritance. Who can question your father's generosity?".

Many people. I could foresee little attack from government benches, given that so many of the MPs opposite were not exactly short of a bob or two. If I was to be leapt upon, it would be by members of my own party. The phrase 'champagne socialist' already rang in my ears.

"This won't play well at all" I sigh, reaching for my tea, "We all know troubling times are coming". Peter simply blinks at me. Nothing broke his cool. Then again I supposed the Prince of Darkness wasn't one for panic.

"Ignore it, and it will die down" he tells me, "Don't let it be an issue". I take a deep breathe and sip at my tea. I find it calms me almost instantly. I could at least control my temper now, even if the words of that headline did still bounce about my head.

"I don't seem to be doing very well this month" I say, rubbing my temple gently, "I had to call the headmaster at Eton yesterday". Peter look at me over the menu he now reads.

"And the elitism continues" he jokes. I roll my eyes and set my tea cup down on its saucer. I would have to request another cup soon. It would take at least three for me to calm down completely.

"Alex was caught smuggling something into his room" I say. Immediately I see Peter's left eyebrow raise. Intrigue glints in his eye. I had reacted in the same way when Tony Little had told me of Alex's offence. As it turned out, however, offence was too strong a word.

"You musn't blame yourself" Peter says quietly, "Most of them do drugs at some point". I am quite tempted to laugh.

"Oh, he hasn't been smuggling drugs into the college" I reply.

"Alcohol?" Peter asks. Such things wee typical of Eton boys, I understood. My Alex was far too well-behaved in such things, of course. Indeed, his 'offence' reflected on his personality brilliantly.

"A cat" I say, fighting back a grin. Peter frowns, intrigue vanishing from his eyes. He lowers his menu and blinks hard. "A cat?" he repeats questionably.

"Apparently he found it in the grounds and decided to adopt it" I inform my friend, amusement washing away my anger at least for now, "The college won't let him keep it, of course, but it was a kind gesture all the same". Peter allows himself a small smile and jerks his head.

"Wherever does he get his kindness from?" he quips, "I can't imagine who he takes after". I take up my own menu and glance over the items offered. I had never been to this particular café before, but I had been to many like it, and so I could more or less predict its contents. A selection of fine pastries and sweets seemed a nice way to appease my appetite.

"He has quite the sense of duty, it seems" I assess, for my son's cat-rescuing antics prove as much, "So clearly not Lionel". It had been quite some time since I had uttered that name. I rarely did so in bitterness. We were on reasonably amicable terms, given what had caused our split.

"I'm inclined to agree" Peter muses, sliding his glasses along the bridge of his nose as he decides on what to have, "A creature of mystery, your boy". I simply avert my eyes and sip what is left of my tea. I'm grateful when a passing waiter swoops down upon us, exuding a familiar air of efficiency that is oh so typical of staff in places such as this. My stomach is equally grateful. It gives a rare grumble as our waiter withdraws his notepad.

"Might I take your order?".

* * *

"Have you seen that journalist beau of yours recently?" Peter questions as we leave the café. London was heading into late afternoon by now, and so the pavements had thinned somewhat. I would be grateful for a stroll before the hoardes of office-workes emerged. "He's asked me to dinner on Wednesday actually" I reply, dismissing my friend's obvious scepticism.

"I wonder whether his newspaper is in any way close to The Sun" Peter ponders, hands in his coat pocket as he and I stroll along contently, "The Telegraph is Tory, I suppose". I frown at him.

"I suppose you're trying to make some sort of point" I say.

"All I would say" Peter tells me sincerely, "Is be cautious of who you reveal your personal information to". I scoff at him and reach into my pocket for my phone. It was a useful retreat when conversations didn't go my way. It was also rather important that I pay attention to it, given my position. "William is not leaking anything to The Sun" I state plainly, needling through Peter's barely veiled theory, "You can put your tin foil hat away".

"So it is to be 'William', is it?" Peter asks. Yet again I roll my eyes. I had assessed quite some time ago that Peter was often like a protective older brother. He had never forgotten his role.

"I'm hardly going to call him 'Mr Lewis', am I?" I chuckle. My mind conjures up images from Pride and Prejudice, with the Elizabeth of that story courteously referring to her darling Mr Darcy.

"Your judgement is rather off lately" Peter judges, and immediately I laugh, "You think William Lewis a suitable companion, and you endorse the wrong leadership candidate". _What is wrong with you?_ Even for Peter, this was a very peculiar mood.

"I haven't endorsed any one" I remind him. I'm almost pained to be reminded of my conversation with Andy, Miliband and Balls. Then again, it was less a conversation and more a dressing down.

"You obviously want Ed Miliband to win" Peter replies. Quite some time ago, I had thought about the possibility of Ed one day leading the party. I had thought he deserved it. Whether that was enough, I did not know any more.

"I'm staying well out of this election, you know that" I state firmly. Peter falls quiet again. It's obvious he wasn't going to be convinced otherwise, and so I leave it alone.

"I'm not sure which of them is best" Peter sighs, gazing ahead pensively. I, of course, reserve judgement. Openly, anyway. I mused on my reservations about certain candidates in private. I wouldn't give Peter any more bullets to fire on my alleged bias.

"We need to reconnect with our roots" I say, "And I don't mean revert back to the confusion of the 80s". That hadn't been a very good decade for our party. It was rare that we did have a good decade, upon reflection. Only with our New Labour project had we won so well.

"We musn't abandon New Labour" I go on, "We simply need to remember what it originally was". Peter nods. As a fellow architect, he was bound to agree.

"The only candidate whom we can trust not to pull the party further to the left is Miliband" he says, "And I don't mean your Miliband". I maintain a straight face, but internally I sigh deeply. I had to admit it. Ed was sympathetic to the left of the party. I would respect and understand whatever decision he made about Labour's direction, but I had a small inkling that I wouldn't agree. The thought pains me somewhat. Ed was the greatest of friends.

"We'll manage, won't we?" I ask, "The party, I mean". These questions about the path ahead provoked other questions about our ability to actually survive. We were holding together relatively well so far, but after thirteen years in govenement, opposition would always be difficult.

"Hopefully" Peter says, "Only time will tell".


	65. The Shadow Cabinet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth begins to suspect that her desire for a New Labour revival is not shared.

**15th June, 2010.**

**The House of Commons, London.**

The Shadow Cabinet were chatting casually when I walked in. It was good to know that, despite the leadership election and the stresses of opposition, my MPs could continue to get along with one another. I do note, however, that David Miliband gives me a particularly sharp glare when I take my seat.

"Settle down, everyone" I call, tapping the glass of water before me with my pen, "We've much to discuss". Conversations die down, and I am allowed to speak in silence.

"As I'm sure you all know, there is to be a leadership hustings on Newsnight this evening. Whilst I remain entirely neutral" I go on, making sure I look to Miliband and Balls particularly, "I would like to wish all candidates the very best of luck". There are several 'hear hear's around the table. Rather innocently, Andy raises his hand. It seemed a needless formality, but I appreciated the courtesy.

"Have you spoken to Gordon at all recently?" he asks. Miliband raises an eyebrow at him.

"Hoping for an endorsement, are you?" he asks slyly. I shoot him a dismissive look and sigh quietly. I decided to move on, but Balls, as per, had other ideas.

"That's obviously not what he meant" he argues, "Don't be so spiky". Whilst I am inclined to agree, I wasn't too keen on the idea of our meeting turning into some sort of altercation.

"Come now, gentlemen, save your energy for this evening" I reason, "To answer your question, Andy, I have". Andy nods and falls quiet again, perhaps wary of accidentally provoking another near-argument. It wasn't his fault Miliband was so agitated of late.

"Gordon hopes the forthcoming debate is conducted honestly, kindly and openly" I say, addressing the whole table now, "We must all use this time to discuss where we go next as a party". Jack nods from beside me and indicates to me that he would like to speak.

"I would perhaps just like to say" he pipes up, "That I think we must refrain from retreating to the left, as we have done in times past. True, it is tempting, given our pain, but it isn't wise". There are more murmurs of agreement around the table. I am reminded of my earlier conversation with Peter Mandelson. The three of us were party veterans now. I liked to think we spoke from a position of reasonable wisdom.

"I quite agree" I smile to Jack, "Seldom does any one think straight whilst in the grip of grief. We need to think clearly about what direction we take in future". There is further nodding from my colleagues. My Ed, however, seems to object.

"But surely voters will want us to reconnect with our roots now" he says, "We can't go into another election tied down by New Labour". It pained me somewhat to disagree with him on so fundamental a question, especially in front of our colleagues, yet disagree I must. I already knew Ed and I would disagree with one another on the matter of political alignment. I was perfectly happy for Labour to reclaim the centre ground, as we had done with Tony. Suggestions of left-wing revival only reminded me of Michael Foot.

"Not if we don't aim to fix it a little, no" I reply, "New Labour has lost its way over the past few years. We need to be the party we were in 1997 again". I look down at the meeting agenda before me and clear my throat, ready to move onto the next item. It is Andy, however, who intervenes this time.

"But this is 2010. Britain has changed since 1997" he argues. I open my mouth to reply, but Balls pipes up now.

"New times call for new politics" he muses. I arch an eyebrow at him. "Said with the air of a poet" I joke, "Now, we must move on. There is much to cover". Miliband gave no indication that he would like to contribute too. I suspected he agreed with me.

"We morphed into the Tories" Balls adds bluntly. Some around him look to him disapprovingly, as if offended by the idea. Others look to him in silence, eyes sad. I'm rather taken aback when I notice Ed, my Ed, nods.

"That's a terribly unfair assessment" Jack objects from beside me. I furrow my eyebrows at Balls and shake my head.

"And a terribly inaccurate one" I agree. Balls sighs and sits up in his seat. Yvette eyes him slightly nervously, perhaps fearful of an outburst.

"It's true, though" Balls protests, "Orignally we were something new, but by the time Tony left we were more Tory than the Tories were. Proposing right-wing policies on crime, harping on about business-". I scoff.

"Taking a tough line on justice and encouraging the business our economy needs in order to grow" I interpret, "Two very sensible things". I refused to accept that I had in some way helped to invent a new Conservative Party. I had forever argued for change and modernisation in the Labour Party, and had been incredibly proud when it finally came about. I failed to see why this made me a Tory of some sort.

"I'll caution you against comparing any one in our party to Tories, Balls" I say firmly, "By all means have your opinions, but don't forget that New Labour was highly successful and popular. It can't possibly be Tory". Several of those around the table laugh. Balls merely sinks back into his seat and tuts. Ed falls quiet. It's clear from the expression on his face that he completely disagrees with me. It only made me all the more intent on changing subject.

"Now, if we could perhaps refocus" I speak, keen on regaining control of the reins in his meeting, "The government is to deliver a budget on the 22nd of this month. Naturally, it's now our task to predict what may be in it". We had set the budget every year for over a decade. It felt very odd to be speculating on its contents. This time last year I was cussing ministers for attempting to sneak in on Alastair Darling for a peek at his plans.

"Cuts, cuts and cuts?" Sadiq Khan queries.

"I was hoping for something a little more constructive" I reply, fighting back yet another sigh. I suppose he was right, in essence. The economist within me frowned slightly whenever my cousin or his colleagues talked of the great economic healing powers of budget cuts. I seriously doubted whether that alone would eliminate our country's deficit. In fairness to the Conservatives, they had at least managed to construct a believable economic plan. Our party didn't know what it thought.

"Elizabeth could always ask her boyfriend" Balls grins. Yvette jabs him with her elbow, whilst I simply roll my eyes.

"You know, Balls, I'm starting to wonder whether it's you who is in love with the Chancellor of the Exchequer" I quip, mild irritation lacing my words. Balls raises an eyebrow at me.

"I meant the twat from The Telegraph" he corrects, ever the eloquent politician, "Then again, your precious George probably has a clue". I am quite tempted to groan. To think I had walked into this meeting with a clear agenda, and a clear head. I was tempted to banish Balls from all future Shadow Cabinet meetings.

"Why do you always harp on at Liz about Osborne?" Peter Hain asks, looking disapprovingly at the man. Balls' eyes light up slightly. Now my Ed looks sympathetic.

I refused to abandon my agenda. The shambles that had been this meeting so far made me question my competence as acting leader somewhat. "Because she-" Balls begin. Determined to prevent our discussion from going off on another tangent, I clear my throat loudly.

"Yes, well, perhaps it's time to move on again".

* * *

"I notice the Express are still harping on about your tax arrangements" Jack sighs as we leave the meeting some time later. I would be grateful for a lie down and some paracetamol. We had at least managed to make progress, finally constructing a draft of sorts for our budget response. It was difficult to plan for something that wasn't yet known, but such was our line of work.

"It's to be expected" I reply, hauling my brief case along at my side, "Clearly it's been a rather slow week for them". Jack looks to me sympathetically. I didn't know why. I wasn't deserving of sympathy. Media attention was an accepted part of my job.

"Might I give you a lift home?" Jack offers, "Save your legs?". I had taken to walking home when in London. Of course, if I was due some where in a hurry, I rang for my driver, but otherwise I walked. Many of my staff, Jonathan in particular, had been wary of the idea, given my elevated position. My London apartment was all but ten minutes away from the Commons. Whilst London was often rather a bruising city, I never encountered any trouble.

"Yes, alright then" I answer my colleague, politeness in mind, "Thank you". Jack strolls up to his car, a slick black Mercedes, which sits amongst many others in the lot behind the Palace, and opens the door of the passenger seat like an attentive chauffeur. We resume our previous conversation when he climbs in too.

"How is your elder brother?" he asks, "I've noticed some papers have attempted to implicate him too". I sigh when I think of Nevin. One month on, and he showed no signs of improvement. Even Mother was in greater spirits than he. My father's business was currently being run by his number two. Nevin expressed little interest in taking over, as was intended. He also expressed little enthusiasm for his new title. A Baronetcy did seem like little compensation for the loss of a father.

"I'm worried about him. He's very depressed" I admit. Jack taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the traffic before us to thin. "I do hope the press haven't been getting to him" he says. Nevin was rather more thin-skinned than I. Then again, as a private man of finance, he rarely encountered great public scrutiny. My brother has weathered very few storms.

"It's that. And Father's death" I tell him solemnly, "And I also gather his bitch of an ex-wife has been giving him grief". Jack frowns at me momentarily, before turning his eyes once more to the road.

"I get the impression you aren't too keen on her" he assesses, rather understating my feelings towards the dreaded Eva Smith. "She's frightfully jumped up considering where she comes from" I tut, "She's only ever worked as a secretary, yet she waltzes about like Cleopatra reincarnated". I ponder briefly on where she might be at this moment. Perhaps flaunting herself in one of her usual swanky haunts in Kensington? Or perhaps she was simply cooped up in the grand apartment my brother bought? _But I wasn't bitter_.

"What a sharp tongue you have" Jack comments. I scoff and raise my head a little higher in mock pride. "One of my finest assets" I reply. Jack simply blinks at me.

"Oh, will you just move?" he snaps suddenly, shaking his head dismissively at the car in front, "Fucking hell". Now it I who blinks.

"And what a sharp tongue _you_ have" I retort. Once the car ahead has gone, and Jack has calmed himself again, we resume our (admittedly dull) conversation.

"Why doesn't your brother just ignore her?" Jack asks, "Give her the push, so to speak". An unfortunate choice of words, one might think. I'd sooner floor her with wit, something which she seriously lacked.

"She always finds a way to make him feel guilty, that he has an obligation to give her what she wants" I grumble, "I shall give you the short version of it all. My brother got her pregnant when she worked for him and, being the stupidly traditional creature that he is, married her because of it". Jack releases a small 'oh', eyes still fixed on the road. I begin to realise that it would have been a lot quicker to walk. I had momentarily forgotten about the chaos of London's roads.

"An unfortunate predicament" Jack concludes, "And I'm sure not an uncommon one".

"I suppose not" I reason, rubbing my eyes. I was overcome rather suddenly by a wave of fatigue. I had been up and about for a long time by now, but I couldn't understand what exactly I had done today that might make me overly tired. Whilst I sat at my desk in a spacious office, real people actually broke a sweat in their work.

"I'm already sure of the answer" Jack says, changing subject suddenly, "But there is no substance in the claims made against you, is there? They're not substantiated?". I glance out of the passenger window and sink a little lower into my seat. I had said I wasn't deserving of pity.

"Not entirely" I reply quietly. Jack lifts his foot from the acceleration pedal slightly and looks to me sharply. "What do you mean?" he questions. I sigh heavily and look him in the eye.

"I can't pay tax on all of that left by my father" I tell him plainly, "Because some of it is tied up in a trust". I would spare my colleague the technicalities. I had no previous knowledge of it all. Perhaps my father had thought he was sparing me the discomfort of having to pay inheritance tax at such a ridiculous rate. In reality, my position was made worse by it.

"So long as you aren't avoiding it voluntarily" Jack warns, clearly worrying for our moral credibility. I dismiss his fears with a knowing look and smile. "After the chaos I caused with that tax speech during the general election?" I say, "I've paid every penny I owe". _Apart from the millions you should be paying in inheritance tax_. I did feel as though I was robbing the public purse of something. A few million would have little impact, but it was _something_.

"Inheritance tax is a dreadful idea" I state abruptly, as if wanting it on the record, "One thing I will definitely be supporting my cousin on is his plan to raise the threshold. Personally, of course, I'd scrap it all together". Ten years ago, I might have thought it a good thing. Now I saw it as entirely unfair. It was a levy designed to penalise the rich. Penalising the rich was all well and good, but families were families. Rich or poor, all parents strive to leave their children something. I'm distracted from my internal rantings when I notice my apartment block drawing near.

"You may support them" Jack says, "But I fear our party may not be with you on this one". I jerk my head and sigh yet again. If my sighs were taxed, I would have paid off Britain's deficit myself by now.

Before I bid Jack goodbye and climb out, I ask something of him. A straight question that happened to pop into my mind as we ground to a half outside my address. "You don't think I'm losing touch, do you?" I query, "With our party, I mean". Jack looks at me with a puzzled expression, before softening it to a sympathetic one.

"I'm starting to ask myself the same question" he admits, "I suppose we're just struggling to adapt". It gladdens me to know that I'm not alone, at least.

"Andy was right in what he said tonight, you know" I concede, "This isn't 1997". I was starting to miss those days very much. The packed rallies, and the enthusiasm of ordinary voters on the streets, and the hums of 'Things Can Only Get Better'.

"I think I'll probably stand down at the end of this parliament" Jack announces suddenly. I feel my mouth gape open slightly. Jack had been an MP for longer than I. He was still very much a part of what I considered to be my inner circle. I hadn't at all considered that he might want to retire.

"It's been a good run, but I don't think I want to keep this up for much longer" Jack adds, "Our party needs new blood". Jack was much older than I in years, but we were both associated with an outdated idea. As much as it pained me to admit it, New Labour was well and truly finished. Our reign had come to an end. _Our party did need new blood._

For the first time in my career, I was beginning to seriously consider the idea that I was no longer the bright young spark that I once had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this part of the story, I wanted to explore the idea of Elizabeth's 'decline', and how she might cope with it.  
> In politics, much is often made of 'fresh faces' coming in and replacing their jaded colleagues.  
> Elizabeth is still much younger than most of her colleagues, but she is a part of the old regime, if you like. Will she deal with that gracefully? We shall see...


	66. Confrontation Inside the Chamber and Out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Prime Minister away, Elizabeth faces Nick Clegg at PMQs

**21st July, 2010.**

**House of Commons, London.**

The House was abuzz with noise. Muttering from the benches me, and cheers from the benches in front. For most Tory MPs, today's session was pure entertainment, a chance for them to see their new pup jump a little. For the Lib Dems, it was an opportunity for their leader to prove himself as a serious politician of great ability. He certainly was no push over. His answers were far more measured than David's.

"Mr Speaker" I say, or shout rather. One often had to shout to be heard in the confines of the Chamber, such was the noise. "I notice the Business Secretary is looking very glum" I comment, leaning on the dispatch box casually, "Perhaps he, like we on these benches, recognises that his party is helping to pedal through policies that, prior to the general election, he would have opposed". Vince Cable simply blinks at me. His fellow liberal frontbenchers turn their eyes away, whilst Clegg himself simply looks amused.

"Again and again, the Honourable Gentleman has spoken very highly of the need for intergrity in politics" I go on, "What happened?". I feel my backbenchers stamp their feet as Clegg rises to reply. I had already made the point that his party was failing to save jobs threatened by the Tories. It was always bound to happen.

"I was under the impress these exchanges were meant for serious questions, but clearly I've been mistaken" Clegg says, sporting a small smirk. Perhaps too loudly, I retort "and not for the first time". Clegg's voice is drowned out by laughter shortly afterwards. Yes, I had definitely spoken too loudly. It was not uncommon for MPs to mutter from where they sat, but unhelpful when so near to microphones.

"Order! Order!" Bercow bellows, jumping to his feet and waving his arms about, "The opposition must calm down. The Honorable Gentleman will be heard!". It takes a further twenty seconds or so for the MPs behind me to calm down once more. Clegg looks rather red-faced when he is called again.

"The Honourable Lady can _carp_ as much as she wishes" he argues, prompting cries of disgust from my colleagues, "This government will hold together in the national interest. We're tasked with clearing up the mess left by her party, and we mean to carry on". The ministers around him nod. I notice George picking at his fingers, clearly not captivated by the debate taking place. He looks up just as I'm about to look away and mouthes ' _Missing David?_ '.

' _Not as much as you are_ ' I manage to mouth back without notice. I took the opportunity as Clegg continued to grandstand about the great moral compass of the Liberal Democrats.

"I am prepared to be held accountable for everything this coaltion does" Clegg says, his smirk working its way back again, "Just as I'm sure the Honourable Lady is prepared to be held accountable for her part in the illegal Iraq War". His colleagues cheer him, but mine simply glare. I maintain a straight face, but inside I quiver slightly, as I often did when Iraq was mentioned. For years I had worked to put that whole sorry incident behind me, yet time and time again it wriggled its way to the surface again.

"Douglas Carswell!" Bercow yells, gesturing towards the Member in question. And so, for another week, my moment comes to an end. After six questions, I could safely conclude that I preferred David. He was certainly a much more entertaining opponent. I looked to PMQs as a source of fun nowadays. The leadership contest progressed slowly, and gradually our party's many cracks began to heal. We had at least survived two months out of government.

"Doesn't he look as though he's been crying?" Andy asks me quietly as the session continues, nodding to where Clegg sat.

"He's mourning his party's credibility" I whisper. I had made amends with Clegg when I had last met him, but I wouldn't pretend to be keen on him. I didn't think his lesson of kindness had stuck either. It was inevitable that the Tories would walk over him. I imagined we would have done the same, had we found a way to unite with them. The only liberal I felt any great sympathy for was Charles.

"Where do you think they'll be in five years time?" Andy muses, studying his counterparts with amused eyes, "On this side of the House?". I struggle not to snort.

"What makes you think they'll still be _in_ the House?".

* * *

Nick Robinson ambushes me the moment I leave the chamber. He waits at the edge of the lobby for me, ready to pounce. "What did you make of today's session, Ms Nelson?" he asks. I smile sweetly and approach him. Robinson was no simple Mail type, after all.

"I thought it was very constructive" I reply, "Though I'm sorry Vince Cable didn't enjoy it more. I fear the Lib Dems have left their senses of humour behind with their popularity". Robinson arches an eyebrow at me, a common thing for any journalist on the verge of asking what they considered to be a good question.

"I did notice a slight flinch at the mention of Iraq" he retorts, "Are you worried about the progress of the Chilcot report?". Again, I shiver, though I make sure I conceal it properly this time. I had consciously flinched, as Robinson put it, which worried me slightly.

"Progress seems a rather strong word for John Chilcot" I joke, "I gather he's still taking witnesses".

"And would you be happy to speak amongst them once more?" Robinson questions. He eyes me knowingly. I wouldn't admit it, but he had struck my weak spot.

"If Chilcot feels I have more questions to answer" I say, "Of course". Robinson nods and begins to back away.

"Thank you, Ms Nelson" he smiles, before scurrying away to another part of the lobby. The press were strange creatures. There had to be something about journalists that I liked. I had married one and was currently involved with another.

"That seemed a slightly pointless interview" Ed judges from beside me.

"Should I beckon him over again so that _you_ can talk to him?" I offer, "'Why, Mr Robinson, you're neglecting the other Miliband'". Ed grins goofily.

"You can mock" he mumbles. I smile at him, genuinely, and give his hand a brief squeeze. "I can indeed" I reply, "And I can also be very proud of you". Even if we had disagreed of late, I was still very fond of him.

"Hardly the words of an independent leader" George speaks, appearing on my right suddenly. Ed jumps slightly whilst I simply roll my eyes.

"Shouldn't you be searching for pennies down the back of a sofa or something?" I poke. I wondered whether the Conservatives had considered that. No doubt a few pence had escaped my pockets during my time at the Treasury.

"Oh no, I was just on my way to collect my guitar actually" George jokes, "I thought I'd try busking". That in itself was a hillarous image. The Conservatives ought to consider that too. David could play the harmonica as George strummed away.

"Try not to sing too out of tune" I warn mockingly, "I don't want you to ruin the weather". From the corner of my eye I can see Ed standing perfectly still. He hovers slightly, gangly arms hanging limply at his sides. _He's wondering when you'll carry on walking_. Clocking his growing discomfort, I turn to him and smile kindly. "Go on ahead to the office" I tell him, "I'll return when I've vanquished him". Ed grins once more, but looks at George cautiously.

"I get the feeling you've approached with a purpose" I say, turning back to him. George arches an eyebrow at me, now wearing that typically mischievious grin of his.

"I think you've been avoiding me" he tells me plainly. Since he had first invited me to talk with him last month, three further invitations had come. Each time, Jonathan had lied to No. 11 about prior engagements of mine. I saw George regularly in the Commons, but usually left before he could catch up with me.

"I've been getting on with my job" I say, "Which is more than you're doing". I glance over my shoulder abruptly, wary of Robinson reappearing. I had to be much more cautious about my image now. Whether I liked George or not, he was still the wrong person to be seen with.

"Are we not friends?" George asks. Friends. I wasn't sure whether that word suited any more. The Leader of the Opposition could not be friends with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The press had enough fun with the fact that David and I were related.

"Yes" I decide, "But we can't be seen in each other's company so much. And I don't fancy sneaking about whenever you happen to want a coffee". I felt it best said now, to try and prevent future incidents. I remember to keep my tone light, so to not offend George in any way.

"We've managed it before" George replies, rather more sharply that I was expecting, "Though I suspect you've had a much easier time of forgetting all of that". I make an effort to keep my voice low. I wouldn't want to cause a scene in the lobby, especially with Robinson lurking about.

"And you seem to be having a very difficult time of forgetting it" I grumble. I look away impatiently, only to catch sight of an incredibly familiar figure stood some distance away, in the centre of the lobby. My eyes narrow, and it takes several seconds for me to confirm who it is.

"Liz?" George frowns, all traces of frustration suddenly vanishing from his voice. Before me, for what reason I did not know, stands my son, chatting casually with a young woman wearing a Commons staff pass. _What is he doing here?_

Puzzled, I approach, deciding to ignore George's curious persuit of me for now. Alex turns as I grow nearer. "Ah" he exclaims. I notice instantly that he's still wearing his Eton uniform, but has concealed most of it with a large and rather puffy coat. An unusual look for a sunny July afternoon, but I was grateful for his effort.

"Thank you" I tell the young lady he had been speaking, gesturing for her to leave. I feel I recognise her, but can't quite place her face. Given the many hours I spent in this place, it was highly likely that she and I had crossed paths before. She stares at me most coldly before walking away.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, "Alexander Nelson, if you're skipping school-". My son holds his hands up in defence.

"I'm due to finish this Friday anyway, as you know" he argues, "But unfortunately there has been a gas leak at the college, and so Mr Little felt it would be simpler to send us home now". It sounded like a very well rehearsed explanation, but almost instantly I accept it. He was exceptionally well-behaved. Surely he wouldn't dream of playing truant.

"However did you get here?" I question.

"The parents of a friend of mine gave me a lift" Alex answers, "I knew you were here, and it's hardly a difficult address to find, is it?". From just behind me I hear George laugh lightly under his breath. Alex must have heard too, as he looks over straight to him, eyes lighting up. _Perhaps he was a Conservative sympathiser_.

"Mr Osborne!" my son exclaims, reaching forward and offering his hand, "A pleasure to meet you". George studies him briefly before shaking it.

"I remember seeing you out on the campaign trail with your mother, during the 2005 election" he recalls, "She hasn't indoctrinated you, has she?".

"My sympathies have changed rather" Alex replies, grinning boyishly. I frown automically. He had enjoyed his time helping me campaign for Labour. He was incredibly fond of Tony and Gordon. Where these Conservative tendencies had sprung from, I did not know. I wasn't sure I liked them, regardless.

Alex clocks onto this fact when he looks back to me. He softens his smile and offers me a conciliatory one. "My things are already in the apartment, by the way" he informs me, and I'm grateful for the change of subject, "Father called by and let me in". I had allowed Lionel a key for incidents such as this. He rarely had to use it.

"So long as you haven't brought that bloody cat with you" I sigh. Alex bites his lip and gives his thick red curls a nervous ruffle. Internally I groan. "Spock" he tells me.

"Pardon?"

"Spock" my son repeats, "I named him". No doubt Emily would be all over it by now. The chances of me being to able to get rid of it were slim. I had never considered myself much of a cat person. One of my many flaws, some might say.

"I have a cat" George says, "Freya". Alex smiles, eyes lighting up once more. He was enthusiastic about 'Spock', I would give him that. It was unlikely that he would neglect the poor creature.

"I wonder if they'd get on?" Alex proposes. I roll my eyes and squeeze between the two of them to get through.

"The two of you can organise a date between your pets if you wish" I mutter, "I have actual work to do".

* * *

No sooner had I reached the door of my apartment, just metres away from comfort, my phone began to ring. I grumble under my breath and reach for it. Kindly, Alex takes my things from me and brushes past in order to unlock the door.

"Hello?" I exhale.

"Liz!" a friendly voice greets from the other end. It takes me a few moments to register it. When I do, I smile in surprise. I had initially wondered whether it was Jonathan calling to report another party cock up. Or perhaps No. 11 begging me once more for a meeting. No. It was Tony.

"I'm on holiday" Tony tells me brightly, "The Maldives". I enter my own London abode and glance over to the window. The somewhat dull landscape of the city greeted me. How lucky Tony was. He had adopted quite the luxurious lifestyle since he had retired.

"It's alright for some" I smile, quietly envious, "How is Cherie?". I can almost sense that Cheshire Cat grin of his. It's more of a struggle to sense the heat of the Maldives.

"Well. She's hiding at the moment" Tony says, "She's starting to burn". I snort at the image and perch down on my couch. Nearby I can hear Alex fiddling about the kitchen, and in the further reaches of the apartment I can faintly hear music. Repetitive and unrecognisable to me, I presumed it came from Emily's bedroom.

"I would be very happy to swap with her should she get fed up" I joke. There is a brief pause.

"Say, what have you got planned for the summer holidays?" Tony asks. His tone indicated to me that he had an idea. If it involved some heat and a break from Westminster, I was interested.

"Nothing" I reply, "I had planned on staying here, in case of any problems with the party". It would be difficult to manage a situation when elsewhere in the world. But a break abroad did tempt me so...

"The party can survive without you for a few weeks" Tony states happily, "We've a holiday in Australia planned next month. Why don't you come with us?". I had visited Australia a number of times before, but only for official trips during my time at the Foreign Office. I couldn't brush off an opportunity to explore a little further, could I?

"I'm sure the children would love to see the place" Tony adds. Indeed they would. They had seen America, France, Italy, even Japan on one occasion. But Australian would be quite the adventure for them, no doubt. Predictably, I was already sold.

"I suppose it would be nice to escape Britain for a while" I reply coyly, "I'll get back to you". I had to at least _pretend_ to consider it thoroughly.

We talk casually about this and that for another ten minutes or so. Our conversation does briefly turn to the state for the party, and our mutual yearning for 'the old days'. My troubles do stir themselves up again when Tony echos Jack's words about the benefits of retirement and the need for 'new blood'.

"Oh hello, darling" I greet, looking up to see my young daughter approach, "What was that I could hear coming from your room?". Emily, short but plucky like me, brushes her long dark locks from her eyes and blinks at me.

"Katy Perry" she answers simply. I blink back. I got the impression the name was supposed to mean something to me. David Bowie was always more my scene. I was no great follower of the charts these days, but today's music was positively dreadful.

"A delightful lady, I'm sure" I speak, "Say, how would you feel about a few weeks away in Australia?". My children of course had to be part of my 'consideration'. I already knew they would agree to it, but I would ask for their opinions all the same.

"Australia?" Emily repeats, blue eyes lighting up. I nod. "I take it that you're interested then" I laugh lightly. Emily nods enthusiastically and skips over to join me on the couch. Her brother continued to occupy himself in the kitchen, no doubt sorting something for that damn cat of his.

"Alex?" I call, wanting to see his reaction to this proposed holiday of Tony's. My son hurries into the living room, holding a small ball of white fluff in his arms. I hadn't expected Spock to be quite so small. Now I was beginning to understand why he had decided to rescue the poor creature from the grounds of Eton.

I open my mouth to repeat my earlier question, but close it when I notice the somewhat distracted look on my son's face. "Is something wrong?" I ask. He had been very chirpy on our way home.

"Well, it's rather odd actually" Alex says, all the while keeping a safe hold on his new pet, "I found something in my coat pocket". I am instantly reminded of the earlier image of him standing in the middle of Parliament's lobby in an incredibly puffy coat in an attempt to conceal his uniform.

I watch as he withdraws a scrap of paper from his trouser pocket and holds it out to me. Noting the look of worry on his face, I read it at an angle so that Emily can't peek at it. Upon it I see black ink, hastily dispensed in poor fashion.

You take responsibility for your wreck of a party, but not the things you have done? You'll know my worry, Nelson.

I frown. Upon seeing the first message of threat, after my father's funeral of all times, I had laughed. I would have laughed a second time, had this not been so eerily planted in the pocket of my son. "Are you sure this came from your pocket?" I ask. Alex nods, cradling little Spock as if finding comfort in it.

"I don't understand" he says, "It was obviously meant for you. Where did it come from?". Emily furrows her eyebrows and looks between the two of us with a confused expression. I would keep her out of it. She was clever, but not yet mature enough for matters such as this.

"Did any one bump into you while you were waiting in the lobby?" I query, "Did any one stand particularly close to you?". It was not only strange that the person attempting to threaten me used my son in this way, it was strange that they knew what my son looked like. Unlike the first, this note actually worried me slightly.

"No, I don't think so" Alex responds, "The only person who stood in any way close to me was that one lady. The one I was talking to". I can remember her now. She had not looked at me very kindly at all when I dismissed her. _What was most provoking was the fact that I felt I recognised her at the time_.

"What does it mean?" Alex asks, dark eyes glinting with worry, "Are you in danger?". Emily sits up sharply and looks to me with sad eyes.

"Danger?" she repeats. I sigh and put an arm around her, pulling her close. I beckon over to Alex and make room for him on my left. I even give Spock a fuss when he sits down. "No danger" I tell them both, "Neither of you have anything to worry about". Emily accepts that and snuggles down into my side. Alex doesn't look so convinced. Still, he stays quiet.

"What I want the two of you to do" I go on, screwing the note up into a ball and stuffing it into my pocket, "Is start thinking about what it is you'd like to do in Australia". Emily giggles. The worry in Alex's eyes is replaced by intrigue.

"Australia?" he exclaims, "I've always wanted to go there".

"Then you are in luck" I beam, "We are indeed going to Australia, and we shall enjoy it very much". 


	67. Prime Ministers of Present and Future.

**27th July, 2010.**

**The Nelson Residence, London.**

It was six am, and already life was stirring in the apartment. For the past hour I had been curled up on the couch signing papers, with the television drawling on in the background. It gave me something to listen to as I trawled through letter after letter. Today was the last day of Parliament before the summer break, and so naturally everything that hadn't yet been sorted had to be cleared. The final days before a recess were rather like throwing out the trash.

I sigh in relief when I remind myself that, in four days, I would be on my way to soak up the sun in Australia. Or at least attempt to. As a pasty Scot, the sun and I weren't always the greatest of friends. No doubt there would be plenty of parasols for me to shelter under. I look up from my particularly dull notes on foreign policy as a sleepy fifteen year old shuffles into the room.

"Mning" Alex mumbles incoherently, copper curls falling over his eyes. I stifle a laugh and smile as he struggles towards the kitchen. "You're up very early" I say, glancing at my watch. I watch cautiously as Alex fumbles about in a cupboard for a bowl, hand brushing perilously against many a fragile piece. "I've got an interview today" he yawns. I arch an eyebrow. He had certainly kept that quiet.

"An interview for what?" I enquire. I suppose it wasn't unusual for young people to seek employment during the summer holidays. Though less so for Eton boys, I suspect.

"David said I could work at his constituency office during the summer, for work experience" my son replies. I tut involuntarily. Usually he was more cautious than this, often dancing around the subject of his changing allegiances with a range of excuses.

"You mean _our_ David? _Prime Minister_ David?" I ask for clarification. Alex looks across to me with a dazed expression. After a few moments of silence, his brain seems to kick into gear, and his dark eyes open to their full capacity. Already a mild look of dread forms in them.

"Err, yes" he mumbles, "In a purely non-political capacity of course. I'm just helping out with this and that". My eyebrow merely arches ever further.

"And why not work at my constituency office?" I suggest, "To save you the travel to Witney". Alex clears his throat and distracts himself with the kitchen's selection of cereal.

"I suppose I'd like a change of scenery" he struggles, "If it's an issue I can-". I shake my head immediately.

"No, no. You go wherever it is you wish" I tell him, accepting defeat for him, "You can infiltrate the enemy camp". Alex manages a smile at that and walks over to perch down on the couch beside me with his cereal.

"It was suggested that I should be interviewed by his office anyway. To avoid the appearance of nepotism and all that" Alex muses, eyes turning to whatever rubbish was playing on television, "After that I'm going for lunch with Charlie". He had perked up rather in the last few minutes. I can't say I was sorry to have dragged him out of his tired stupor.

 _British conduct in Afghanistan is key to the country's foreign policy_. I read the heavy words in front of me with little interest, but maintain an equal level of focus on both my work and Alex. "Charlie?" I ask casually, scribbling out some of that I had written.

"A friend of mine" my son replies, raising his spoon to his lips. Alex regularly told me of his largely innocent exploits at Eton. The nicknames Rup, Eddie, Pitt and, more bizarrely, Badger were all familiar to me. Charlie was not.

"A _friend_ " I repeat cheekily. Alex shoots me a dismissive look and rolls his eyes, a typical Nelson trait. "It's not quite like that" he replies, looking back to the television with slightly rosy cheeks. His expression hardens suddenly, as though hit by a deep thought.

"Why does Uncle Nevin dislike Uncle Ian so?" he asks, "Is it because he's gay?". I set my papers aside for a moment and sigh. Ian had settled in Oxford once more, taking up a position at its university, which set his elder brother's teeth on edge. Other factors contributed to their dislike for one another. Even my father, as traditional as they come, was no ranting homophobe.

"It's not that" I say, "Nevin is still very upset about your grandfather's death, and Ian isn't making life any easier for him". Alex still sports a look of mild worry.

"But the mere mention of Uncle Ian's boyfriend irritates him" he adds. In that, Nevin and I were matched. My irritation, though, was mixed a little with fear. Not of the man himself, but the movement behind him.

"That is a little more complicated. Your Uncle Ian has decided to fall for Rob Campion of all people" I admit, "I shan't go into it all now, but let us just say that Rob Campion hasn't always particularly sympathetic to me". I see questions developing in my son's eyes, but dutifully he suppresses them all. He wasn't a child, by any measure, but I wasn't sure I was ready to explain to him the beastly business that had been the invasion.

Alex's expression of worry is replaced by one of deep thought. Over his cereal he muses quietly. "Love isn't always convenient" he declares, with the air of an eighteenth century scholar, "But there is no point in trying to change it". No doubt he was right, in essence.

"What a wise thing to say" I say, "Keep that up and you'll be Prime Minister before you know it".

* * *

I glance out of my window to assess how many cameras were waiting for me. The last day of parliament seemed an appropriate time for a meeting at No. 10. I often found myself depressed by the sight of that famous black door, but it was necessary for the serving Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition to meet occasionally to discuss policy. In the days of Blair and Hague, such discussions were used to seek points of agreement. They were perhaps less so in the days of Brown and Cameron.

"I should be finished around ten, Spratt" I tell my driver, patting the old man on the shoulder appreciatively. He nods. At this point, drivers usually climbed out to open the door for their passenger. I usually discouraged this. Exiting a car wasn't a difficult task. Besides, Spratt's knees weren't what they used to be.

"What do you say to those in your party who are casting doubt on your leadership?" a reporter calls, mere seconds after I set my foot down on the pavement. A dull question, not one deserving of a retort from me. As my car is driven back down the street, I advance across the pavement, sights set on the door ahead. "Is it true that you're going on holiday with the Blairs?" another shouts. To that, I turn and smile.

"Don't begrudge me a bit of sunshine" I shoot, "This is England". I nod to the policeman waiting, wary of any attempts to stop me given the hoardes of cameras across the street. Just as I'm about to step up to the door, it opens, and out walks David himself.

"Oh dear, we're making something of this are we" I groan. David looks to me wearily, but brightens his expression once he notices the press. He stands close, arm raised high as he waves to those before us. "You forgot the red carpet" I joke, giving the cameras a wave, albeit reluctantly.

"You're not _that_ important" David replies quietly. I very much looked forward to reading The Sun's interpretation of our conversation. No doubt they were already wheeling a lip-reader in.

"Was that really necessary?" I ask as we walk into the building. I'm grateful when I hear the door shut behind me. David slips his hands into his pockets, perfectly nonchalant. "It's important to show unity during these difficult times" he reasons. _We're not at war_ , I think to myself.

"You're just a whore for attention, aren't you?" I reply. David simply winks. Once a PR man, always a PR man. My cousin was certainly an unusually smooth politician. The only figure whom I could match him to was Tony.

"Don't let anyone quote you on that" the Prime Minister says, leading the way through one of the many creaky corridors of Downing Street. I snort despite myself.

"On the contrary" I say, "You could do with an honest quote about you". David chooses to ignore that particular stab, instead choosing to change the subject entirely.

"Sam and I are thinking about doing some redecorating" he says casually. I glance up to the ceiling. Downing Street had been plagued by peeling wallpaper and cracked paint for quite some time. It was a very old building, after all, and not for quite some time had any one considered a make over. "Are you going to do it yourself?" I grin, "Or will you call in a the homeless? Is this part of your _big society_ idea?". Again, David ignores my teasing. I couldn't blame him for wanting to maintain a civil, serious atmosphere. _George would be saying something_.

"Would you like me to see if the Chancellor is available?" David suggests, opening a door to our left and walking through into the corresponding room, "To defend himself in person, so to speak?". I shake my head immediately. Any debate between myself and George usually reverted into a battle of sarcasm. Also, after my near-argument with him in the Commons lobby the previous week, I was quite keen on cementing my position as Leader of the Opposition, and not _friend_ , in his mind.

"No, no. No doubt he is very busy" I reply, perching down on a rather ornate couch, "He's well, I hope?". I could at least ask after him.

"Still getting used to his increased responsibilities, but yes, he's quite well" David informs me politely, "Frances has been giving him rather a headache lately, I gather. She doesn't seem to enjoy Downing Street". I'd always appreciated the seclusion of it, but I could understand how one might begin to feel trapped on a permanent basis.

"Anyway, it's you I've come to challenge" I clear my throat. David sits down opposite me and rolls his sleeves up slightly, as though preparing for a fight.

"Then I shan't stall you any further" he says, bracing himself. I'm grateful for that. I had come here with a purpose.

"My party is very worried about your plans to introduce a new medical test of Disability Living Allowance" I begin, "Forgive me, but Iain Duncan Smith is no beacon of fairness". David appears unmoved.

"As you well know, the welfare bill became too far too large under the last Labour government" he replies, "It's only right that we should seek to ensure that we help those who _really_ need helping".

"But why target the disabled?" I question, "Of all the areas to be focusing on". I agreed with David on his point about the welfare bill. In the early days of New Labour, we had committed to keeping welfare spending low. One of our breaks from Labour tradition, you might say. Our grip on the matter, however, loosened as the years progressed.

"We're not focusing on this" David tells me calmly, "We're taking considerable steps to encourage more to work". A noble cause, if it was conducted properly. Very often Conservatives forgot where they were when talking about benefits. The idea of _those lazy commoners getting off their arses and finding employment_  was far too rampant on government backbenches.

"Speaking of employment" I go on, "In the budget it was announced that public sector workers would have to put up with a two year pay freeze. Tell me honestly whether you've plans to extend that pay freeze". David sits back in his seat and sighs lightly.

"Are we proposing that we do?" he pokes. I roll my eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous" I respond, "You haven't answered my question".

"No, we're not going to extend the pay freeze" my cousin answers bluntly. My eyebrow raises of its own accord. Doing so would be politically dangerous, and so I was inclined to believe him. These questions had to be asked, of course.

"I shall hold you to that" I say, fixing him with a stern look, "I don't doubt your intentions in any of this, but don't be surprised if I criticise you week after week". David allows himself a small chuckle and rubs his eyes. I hadn't noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes before now. I wondered how he was finding the job, whether it was what he expected.

"It's your job to criticise me. You needn't worry on that front" my cousin sighs, "You know, it's a shame you didn't run for the leadership of your party". I scoff at that comment. It had been suggested to me by a number of colleagues since May that I should have stood in the election, but time and time again I reminded them that I simply wasn't interested.

"On the contrary, it's a great relief" I reply earnestly, "Keeping my party together is my current priority. Gordon tasked me with that, and I shan't fail him". I doubt David thinks much of my promises to Gordon Brown, but nonetheless he smiles.

"He called me just before he left for the Palace to resign" he tells me reminiscently, "He warned me then that he was leaving you in charge". A smirk works its way into my lips.

" _Warned_ " I repeat, "I rather like that".

"I remember he talked briefly of the leadership election. The procedures, the timetables, all that" David continues, "The only potential candidate he named was you". I involuntarily fall silent, resorting to blinking at the man opposite with a blank expression.

"Yes, well he was rather overwhelmed at the time" I eventually speak. David simply looks at me with searching eyes. It was flattering to know that Gordon thought me leadership material. He hadn't indicated as such when he first invited me to serve as interim leader. Perhaps he knew I would instantly dismiss the idea.

"Leader of the Labour Party is too grand an office for me" I add. I had found there was much to be found outside the premiership. Thirteen years at the top of government proved as much. No. 10 was a lovely house, but not one I would ever pine for.

"To tell you the truth, I suspect this may be the last great job I hold in politics" I admit. An unforeseen moment of weakness led to that particular admission. Family or not, it wasn't the sort of thing I usually revealed to David. Thankfully, he was too courteous to capitalise on it.

"You don't think the next leader will want you in the shadow cabinet?" David asks. After the headaches I had suffered as a result of chairing Shadow Cabinet meetings week after week, I would be partly grateful to be dropped completely.

"If Diane Abbott gets in, certainly not" I joke, "If I am to be kept on, I doubt I'll be given a major job. I don't think I _want_ a major job". I realise I'm talking more to myself than David, and so I offer my cousin an attentive smile. He sits up slowly.

"Are you quite alright, Liz?" he asks, concern lacing his words, "You sound slightly downtrodden". _Downtrodden_ was an interesting word. An inaccurate one too.

"You may be a good five years my senior" I answer, feeling really rather tired of all sudden, "But your time in office is only just beginning. You feel _fresh_. Savour that feeling, because it won't last forever. And when it does fade, you'll miss it terribly". David's concern is paired with a glint of pure sadness in his eyes. I hadn't meant to depress him, but I realised my words weren't overly jolly.

"Goodness, you've actually moved me" my cousin laughs quietly. I find I can manage a small smile.

"I consider that an achievement".

* * *

We cheer ourselves up by talking of our upcoming holidays as we leave the meeting some time later, just a little after ten. "I hear you're heading off to join the Blairs" David says, courteously leading me towards the door.

"I shall send them your love" I wink, "Whereabouts are you headed this year?". David smiles to himself fondly. He did love his holidays.

"Cornwall" he answers, "We thought it wise to stay closer to home this year, given Sam's _condition_ ". I roll my eyes.

"Try and sound a little more nineteenth century" I tut. Perhaps that was why I had not seen her recently? _She was in hiding_ , as was typical of women in another century. Then again, David had been more than keen to flash her bump about during the election.

"I don't want her going into labour half way across the world" my cousin defends.

"Imagine the shame if your child was born in a foreign hospital" I poke, faking a shudder, "The Mail would disown you in a heartbeat". I notice David quickens his pace, as though desperate to reach the door and be rid of my seemingly unrelenting sarcasm.

Politely, I change tact. "It was kind of you to take my son in this summer".

"Not at all. I should be happy to have him work at the office" David smiles, "He can spy on you for me".

"Then you will be making him a double agent" I snort, "I'm his mother. He owes me at least a few tidbits". I wonder what the Witney conservatives hide in their closets? _Apart from their hunting jackets_.

"Ah, Nick" David greets his deputy, who emerges from an intervening door. The liberal smiles broadly, and, most curiously, _genuinely_. It would be no fun for opponents such as myself if the two men actually _liked_ each other.

"Ms Nelson" Clegg nods, "Good to see you again". I smile kindly. _Kindly_. It was Clegg himself who had first advised me on that. "Recovered from our exchange last week, I hope?".

"Quite" Clegg says, a picture of happiness in troubling times, "I think I made my point. A pity you forgot the lesson I taught you". David and I both narrow our eyes, but entirely different reasons.

"What lesson?" the Prime Minister asks. Clegg gives me a knowing look, before continuing on along the corridor to his desired destination. "He isn't teaching you Dutch is he?" David asks.

"I didn't realise he spoke it" I look back after him, admittedly impressed. Quite the European, that man.

"He speaks no less than five languages" David informs me, an air of pride about him, "He's really very good, you know". I don't bother to suppress my smirk.

"Careful, David, you're already painted as a married couple" I warn mockingly, "Don't let the press know that you're actually in love with the man". David clears his throat and gives me another of those dismissive glances.

_This was very modern conservatism indeed._


	68. A Final Shot.

**15th September, 2010.**

**House of Commons, London.**

I had returned from my holiday with a light tan. I was glad to have avoided any serious burning, given my usual pale complexion. It had been a very enjoyable break, one I was sad to see end. Today, it seemed, I was on the edge of another break. Very soon, Parliament would once again disband, leaving its inhabitants to prepare for the much-awaited conference season. Today would also be my last appearance at the dispatch box as Leader of the Opposition. My opportunity for a final shot, you might say. Given the circumstances, however, I was quite tempted to spare my target any serious damage, for he was already recovering from other wounds.

"Mr Speaker, I would like to take this opportunity to once again offer the Honourable Gentleman my condolences upon the death of his father" I offer sincerely, "I knew Ian Cameron to be a good man, and he'll be missed". From the bench opposite, David gives an understanding nod. A cruel thing, life. No sooner had my cousin celebrated the birth of his daughter, he was mourning his father. 2010 was not the Nelson-Cameron clan's best, clearly.

Still, the session continues, and I pose my first question, this time on the issue of sex trafficking. News of young girls being sold like animals to unknown men in the city troubled me greatly. I couldn't use all of my turns on Lib Dem jokes.

"May I thank the Honourable Lady, and indeed members from across the house, for their kind words in regards to my father" David smiles appreciatively. I had spoken to him at the time of Ian Cameron's passing, and was glad to see him on his feet again after such a short amount of time. He certainly wasn't as snappy as I had been upon losing my own father.

"I also hope the Honourable Lady had a nice holiday" David adds, much to the amusement of the House. I roll my eyes. It had been a nice holiday. The Blairs were interesting company. Alex was still rather frightened by Cherie (for reasons I did not know), and Emily and Leo Blair had bonded over whatever it is children their age do bond over. On one night, after slightly exhausting day exploring Melbourne, Tony and I found ourselves chatting idly beside the pool of our hotel. Naturally, our conversation turned to the state of our party.

_"I gather Gordon has endorsed Ed Miliband" Tony acknowledged over his wine. I set my own aside and emit a small sigh. "Much to the irritation of the other Ed" I reply, picturing the red-faced mug of Balls in my mind with disturbing clarity._

_"Not thinking about making any endorsements of your own?" I ask curiously. The leadership election was a topic we had barely touched upon in prior conversations. "An endorsement from me would be neither welcome nor helpful" Tony retorts, a hint of sadness about him, "Yourself?"._

_"Much the same" I answer, "I don't think any candidate would be too keen to have me behind them". Tony leans back in his chair and raises an eyebrow._

_"You seem very popular amongst the PLP" he argues. Popularity for leaders of our party was a difficult thing. I had liked both Tony and Gordon, but, at least after a time, the public had not. I didn't have a very great record to build upon._

_"I'm an old woman now" I joke. To that Tony scoffs. His hair was a solid grey, and his eyes were lined by wrinkles. Time and work had aged him greatly. I could just about remember the brown-haired, youthful chap I'd aided in 1997._

_"You're younger than any of the candidates" he reminds me. I find I often forget my age. I felt fifty, not thirty-eight. "I don't feel it" I exhale, reaching over for my wine as a source of comfort._

But of course I must concentrate. It would be a great shame to mess up my final appearance as interim leader, given my success in previous weeks.

"I also realise that this is to be my last exchange with the Honourable Lady" my cousin continues, "Whatever our differences, I have always liked and respected her a great deal". _I should certainly hope so, given we shared blood._

 _"_ I consider her a great credit to her party" my cousin finishes his pleasantries, "Though I am glad not to be facing her on a more permanent basis". I smirk whilst others around me chuckle. It was fair praise, and I was grateful. Bizarrely, my relationship with my cousin had improved over the past few months. If anything, I had expected it to worsen.

Twenty years ago, the mere sight of him had irritated me. Growing up, I had seen him only as yet another snooty Englishman.

_He was allowed in my father's study, and I was not. I loitered about the door, probably scuffing my shoes as I brushed them against the doorframe impatiently. With no cat or dog to excuse the noise, I hoped my existence would have to be acknowledged._

_I was fourteen, and still relatively new to England. For a year we had lived in Oxfordshire, simply another well-off family intent on seclusion themselves in the hills. Since our move, our most regular guests had become the Camerons, in particular their second eldest son, an Oxford student by the name of David._

_"You must join us when next she visits" I hear my father speak. I knew precisely who it was they were talking about. Another irritating figure by the name of Thatcher. "I'd imagine she's too busy for starry-eyed admirers such as myself" my cousin replies. My habit of rolling my eyes on a regular basis started early._

_"Send a few thousand her way and I'm sure she'll given you a glance" I mutter under my breath, conceding defeat in my mission. A chair creaks from within, catching my attention. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" he says politely. Before I can slink away, the study door opens, and out steps David, wispy brown hair seemingly thickening with every passing minute. His cold blue eyes fix on my minute form instantly._

_Casting a wary glance back into the study, he steps out into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. "I thought I heard you creeping about" he says accusingly. "This is my home" I argue, "I'm entitled to"._

_"I can't see what you'll achieve by listening in" David dismisses, crossing his arms. I stand my ground. I was particularly short for my age, and weighed barely anything. My cousin towered over me, yet he failed to intimidate me in any way. "Don't begrudge me curiosity" I smile sweetly._

_"Certainly not" he replies coldly, "But I won't appreciate eavesdropping"._

1986 was an age ago. In that time, we had both changed a great deal. He had softened in his arrogance, and I had hardened in mine. When I stood out in that hallway back then, I certainly didn't think we would end up facing one another over the dispatch box. What a strange world this is.

"Have you seen Charles Kennedy recently?" Andy leans towards me as David finally gets to the answer of my question. I frown suddenly and glance over to his usual spot on the benches opposite. I felt guilty for not seeing him recently. Not that I would know where to find him. He seemed to have disappeared.

"Elizabeth Nelson" the Speaker nods. I recalibrate and remind myself to focus on the task at hand.

"I thank the Prime Minister for his kind words" I say, "Such pleasant words, and I'm not even wearing a hoodie". It had been a long while since any one had referenced David's 'hug a hoodie' moment. I couldn't resist.

"Mr Speaker, an issue like human trafficking requires international action" I pose, "In March the European Commission proposed a directive tackling this very problem. Does the Prime Minister agree that the UK should opt in to this directive?". Already I hear muttering a from the Conservatives. You'd think on an issue of such gravity they would set their petty hatred of the continent aside.

"Of course, we will give it every consideration" David answers stiffly, "But there is nothing in the directive that isn't already in British law. We must also be wary of what impact this directive may have on our borders. I think that's only right". And of course it comes back to borders. There were moments when I genuinely admired the Tories for their recent push towards modernisation, but others when I was infuriated by their inability to stick to it.

"I recognise the steps already taken by this House in regards to the issue, but, as I say, this requires an international response" I repeat, "Does the Prime Minister not recognise the directive as a step towards that?". I could tell I wasn't going to get through any time soon. I had hoped for a consensus of some sorts, but clearly I had overestimated by cousin on this occasion.

"I have already answered that question" David states as he gets to his feet once more, prompting snorting from the benches behind me. "I agree, this is something we will have to work together on" he adds, "But I don't see the new directive as any great improvement". With cameras pointing in my direction, I'm forced to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Our exchange continues much in the same way. Question six and still no victory on either side. I did at least get him to ensure that he did actually consider the much-mentioned directive. That would have to be my prize for this particular battle, for I now had but one question left.

"I believe I have one final question to ask before I go" I announce to the House. Some laugh, some smile, and some give saddened 'awh's. David, and indeed George, looked most disappointed.

"In opposition, the Prime Minister suggested that Prime Minister's Questions return for two sessions per week, as was the case before the last Labour administration" I smile, "Now that he has seen what _fun_ it really is, does he stand by that?". I'm glad when members from across the house begin to laugh. Slightly pink of cheek, David stands to face me for the final time.

"One of the few things that I fully agree with Tony Blair on is that one half-an-hour session per week is preferable to two" he replies, "Indeed, I've taken many a grilling from the Honourable Lady over the years, but I wouldn't change Prime Minister's Questions in any way". I grin despite myself. Helping Tony to prepare for two sessions every week during the years of John Major had been quite stressful. I could be content with the current set up. It gave those who didn't have to speak something to look forward to.

"I know this is not to be our final goodbye to the Honourable Lady" David notes, "But I think I shall miss facing her at the dispatch box. And I hope, whoever is elected in her position, she remains on the front bench". Astonishingly, there are nods from the government benches. I look about them to see Tories smiling at me kindly. It was an odd, given how much they used to despise me when I first arrived in Parliament.

"I understand she has four votes in this leadership election" David finishes, "Perhaps she could use those tactically. Isn't democracy a beautiful thing?". With that he takes his seat, members chuckling around him. I laugh, keeping the error in his remarks to myself on this occasion. I had _only_ three votes.

My membership of the party, parliamentary party and the Fabian Society gave me those. I might have had four had I been a member of a trade union.

So that was it. It had been a relatively enjoyable session towards the end. Despite the weight of the topic discussed, we kept in light spirits. Neither of us could resist a few small digs in our final exchange.

"Well done, Liz" Andy nudges me with his elbow. I pat his knee appreciatively and rest my head against the bench. It wasn't comfortable but it would do. "Who knows" I whisper, "It may be you sat here in a few weeks time". Andy blushes scarlet and bows his head.

"I don't think that's likely" he replies quietly, smiling all the same. I thought it a shame, but Andy was right. It seemed the next leader of the Labour Party would be a Miliband. Which, I had no idea. Even if I was said to favour Ed, I still liked Andy a great deal.

"I wouldn't worry" I smile, "We'll both be out on our ear should Diane win".

* * *

A most unexpected admirer awaits my emergence from the Chamber. Unfortunately for the gentleman in question, I was swarmed by other MPs, eager to offer me kind words as I bow down from my position. It was though I was never to be seen in the Commons ever again. It was rather sobering, to receive a goodbye without really going anywhere.

"An admirable performance, I hear" Michael Heseltine greets me with a bow of his head. I approach him, leaving my colleagues to converse between themselves. "It must have been a little more than admirable if it has attracted your praise" I retort. Understandably, Heseltine had few supportive words for me.

"I have no grudge against you, Ms Nelson" the aging man states, surprising me with the sincerity in his eyes, "In reality, it took me a matter of months to recover from your victory". Who was this gracious and mellow character before me? I certainly didn't recognise him to be the resentful Lord Hesetine who had lost his seat so humiliatingly to a student.

"Then why have you been so cold all these years?" I ask, curious to know the reason for his sudden change in attitude.

"I suppose I've begun to realise my age. I'm old, and getting older" Michael ponders aloud, "And as I do get older, whatever prejudices I've held have begun to soften".

"How unusual, for an elderly gentlemen to soften in his prejudice rather than harden" I remark. When I had first approached him, I had no idea I would end up having quite so deep a conversation.

"The point is, I see no reason why I should continue to be cold towards you. It's terribly childish" Michael continues, extending his hand in friendship. I hesitate for a second or two, perhaps checking once more for honesty, before shaking it.

"It seems both you and I have changed" I say. Michael raises a wispy eyebrow. "Oh?" he queries. Conversations with many of my old colleagues only confirmed to me that I was no longer the party's young darling. The old days were long behind me, and behind me they would stay. It would be difficult, but I would have to work to remember that.

"Nothing" I answer, sparing my old rival the complexities of my thoughts. I offer him a final smile. "I should probably rejoin the others" I nod.

"Perhaps I should save you a seat in the Lords?" I hear Michael suggest as I turn away. I glance back and frown at him.

"Now that you're not long for the Commons" he says, eyes darkening somewhat. And so the old Michael Heseltine lived on.

"Whatever are you talking about?" I ask. He simply nods to me once more and totters away, running an aged hand through his thin white hair. To think it had once been the clearest of golds. He'd remind me of Peter if it weren't for the stiffness of his walking.

"Come on, Liz" Andy beckons, "We ought to have a drink". I could agree to that. No doubt there were things for me to do back at the office, but I hoped I would be allowed just a few moments of relaxation. I was already well rested from Australia, but even then the pressures of the job had weighed on my mind most nights.

"We'd better get there before Charlie Kennedy clears the entire bar out" Balls attempts, prompting an immediate eye roll from Yvette. I shoot him a stern glance. "Don't be horrible" I warn, "Not today".

And so we, a group of veterans and survivors, make our way through the lobby and towards the much-frequented bar. "Conference is going to be a pain" Harriet mummurs beside me. I glance about the room as she speaks, curious as I often was.

"Conference is always a pain" I joke. I hear Harriet sigh loudly. For a moment I'm distracted by someone moving against the flow of members exiting the lobby. "No, but with shadow cabinet appointments as well" Harriet tells me, "We've no idea who will stay where".

The figure walking by, as I should probably have predicted, is George. I wasn't entirely sure where it was he was headed, but he seemed driven. It takes me a further few moments to realise that he is heading in my direction.

"Presumably, we'll remain unmoved until after conference" I say to Harriet, keen to be seen occupied. I walk closer to my colleague, leaning my head slightly in her direction as to make it obvious that we were in conversation. Even if I wasn't to lead the Opposition any more, I still belonged to the Opposition.

Yet when I look up, and find George has disappeared, I'm disappointed. Perhaps David's sarcasm hadn't been quite strong enough to satisfy me.

"Just think, you might get Shadow Chancellor" whispers excitedly. I try not to laugh.

"I'd rather a job I was interested in".

* * *

Alex had returned to Eton, and Emily had gone up to our home in Oxford to spend time with my brother's daughter. I thought it wise to let her be with someone her own age. She had been pining for Leo Blair ever since we left Australia. I couldn't say Nevin would be particularly good company, however. He barely gave his little Catherine a backwards glance these days.

Their absence of course presented me with the opportunity of peace. Instead of taking up that opportunity, though, I'd invited William Lewis, _my journalist beau_ as Peter put it, over.

"Have you had any more omnious messages?" he asks, leaning back into the couch casually.

"No. Though now parliament has resumed I expect I might" I answer. I had kept both 'threats' and hidden them in the top drawer of my desk back at the office. It was locked, and only I had the key, so I was sure both were safe.

"You don't think it's someone from parliament, do you?" William questions, slightly taken aback by my apparent insinuation. "Let's face it, there are plenty there who do hate me to thay degree" I reply, "But I don't think the culprit is another MP, or an advisor". William narrows his eyes, as if in thought.

"A member of staff?" he prompts. I reach for my wine and nod. Of course, it would be easier for a member of the police to investigate all this, but I didn't like to draw too much attention to myself. The press would be all over it if they knew.

"Before the recess, when Alex decided to turn up in the lobby, I saw him taking with one of the Commons staff" I tell him, "She looked most annoyed when I dismissed her. I bet it was she who put the message in Alex's coat". William arches an eyebrow.

"What was she saying to him?" he queries, the questions flowing free. I should expect no less from a journalist.

"Alex said he asked her about the statues in the lobby, hoping she might know more about them" I go on, "She didn't". I thought it a very good thing that she hadn't been taken on as a tour guide.

"He wasn't trying to fish for her number then?" William jokes. I snort. The idea of Alex asking any one for their number was an odd one. He'd sooner ask them to take tea with him, such was the sweetness of his character.

"Oh, no. I've a feeling his eye is focused firmly elsewhere" I say. William's eyebrow only arches ever further. I wasn't a prying mother, but a member of a very open family. Apart from his growing affinity for the Conservatives, Alex was happy to talk to me about anything. Charlie, the friend he had taken coffee with before our holiday, seemed to be a particular favourite of his.

"Do you know the identity of the girl?" William asks, taking me back to the topic at hand. I shake my head. I'd looked for her since returning from recess, but to no avail. "Unfortunately not, no" I sigh, "There is something that does puzzle me though".

"I received the first message when I was in Scotland" I tell my companion, "Unless this girl followed me up to Nairn, I don't understand how she might have got to me". The memory is clear. It had been the day of my father's funeral, after all. David had passed the note on to me, after taking it from the presiding priest, who in turn had received it from a faceless chap named Angus. That was how I remembered events.

"Do you think she has an accomplice?" William suggests dramatically. Despite the topic of our conversation, I begin to laugh. "I feel as though I'm in a crime drama" I grin, "You can be my sidekick".

"Sidekicks are for super heroes" William corrects.

"Do you not me think me a super hero?" I flirt. My special power would of course be putting up with idiotic men.

"I don't think you're a hero, no" says William, "But I do think you're super". I take a long sip of my wine and roll my eyes.

"That was dreadful" I tell him plainly. It looks as though he's about to kiss me, but at that very moment there is a loud thud on the front door of the apartment. We both freeze for a moment, exchanging looks of apprehension. Only when there is a second bang I get to my feet.

"Shouldn't I answer it?" William suggests, "It doesn't sound like an overly friendly visitor".

"Which is why it requires female attention, rather than that of a man" I quip. I hesitate before I open the door, leaning close in an attempt to hear what lurked behind it. Then, with a deep breath, I turn the key and open it.

There stands a ragged-looking figure, with a creased suit and unkempt hair. In the dim light of the hallway I can just about work out who it is.

"Charles!" I exclaim, shocked to see my friend in such a dishevelled state. "What on earth are you doing here?". He blinks at me, swaying slightly where he stands.

He mumbles something under his breath,  but what I have no idea. He takes a step forward, but stumbles as he does so. But before I can even attempt to catch him, he hits the floor.


	69. Ed.

**25th September, 2010.**

**Manchester, England.**

Peter had elected to stay away from the conference hall. He lurked about the fringes of the city, calling on me for drinks, but avoiding the politics. He asked me repeatedly whether I had used any of my votes in the leadership election, and each time I had declined to answer.

"I presume you removed Kennedy before you left" I hear Peter's voice from my phone. I glance about the corridor, wary of any delegates lurking near. "I didn't remove him. I took him home once he was well again" I exhale, "You're too cold".

"Said the pot to the kettle" Peter quips, "Shouldn't he see a doctor?". It was divine intervention that Charles needed ten days ago. More than once I had gone to call for an ambulance, but each time Charles warned me against it. I could understand why, given the interest of the press, so it had been left to me to look after him. "I think he needs more than a doctor" I say sadly, "The poor man". Seeing such an dear friend in so terrible a state hurt more than I cared to admit.

"I'm afraid your sympathies will have to be pitted elsewhere today" Peter says, "Miliband will certainly need it after the results". I peer into the adjacent room, a large and busy conference hall, curious to see just how many people had now assembled. From where I stand, or rather tip-toe, I can just about see that five seats at the very front of the hall have been left vacant. To think the big day had arrived already.

"I didn't think you rated Ed" I recall. Peter pauses, before giving a very light chuckle. "Oh no, I don't think _that_ Miliband will win" he informs me, as though I was silly for suggesting otherwise, "I talk of the _other_ Miliband". The announcement of the leadership results did at least mean that all this talk of the different Milibands would end. It got terribly confusing when one stuck to using only their surname.

"I suspect the members with favour David" I concede, "And he did receive the most parliamentary support". It proved a delightful spectacle for the commentators. One of the Miliband brothers would emerge from the hall today as the leader of the Labour Party. My greatest fear was that the loser would resort to bitterness.

"I've a feeling you're about to tell me how Ed might win" Peter snorts. I dismiss his mocking. "It's quite simple" I tell him, " _The trade unions_ ". As a stalwart of the left, you might expect Diane Abbott to attract the most trade union support, yet it was Ed who took the lead.

"Shall we bet on this too?" Peter suggests. The twenty pounds he had given me as a result of our election bet had been well spent on consolatory drinks in Commons bar. Another twenty wouldn't hurt.

"We're making this a bit of a habit" I say, "Twenty pounds says Ed wins it". I could almost sense Peter's smile. To think he and I were professional politicians.

"Very well" he says, "Now stop talking to me and take your seat". I glance back into the hall. More and more delegates take their places, most conversing with one another excitedly. Several seats in the first few rows had been reserved for the shadow cabinet. I was unsure as to which was mine, but I certainly hoped he gave a decent view.

I say goodbye to Peter and slip my phone into my pocket. Then, I make my way into the conference hall, eyes immediately scanning the area for familiar faces.

"I didn't expect to see you here" I beckon my prized aide, Jonathan. He seems to have traded his usual suit for a casual combination of a t-shirt and jeans. The transformation was quite unusual.

"I'm Labour, Ms Nelson" he reminds me, "This means a great deal to me". It was pleasing to know that his interest in the party stretched beyond employment.

"And who did you vote for?" I ask cheekily. Jonathan looks about him warily, before leaning close and whispering 'Ed Balls'. He holds his hands up defensively when I tut him.

"I didn't realise he'd made such an impression" I scathe, "Do you want a job after this?". He looks to me uneasily before turning back and taking his seat.

As I begin to walk towards my own seat, which I'm told is in the very middle of the second row, I become aware of many sets of eyes on me. "Ms Nelson! Ms Nelson!" a young girl rushes along beside me, waving a familiar booklet in her hands. Politely, I stop walking and turn to smile down at her.

"Will you sign this?" the girl asks brightly, holding the booklet out to me. It's the party's manifesto from the last election, both amusing me and depressing me. I take it from her, as well as the biro she extends to me a few seconds later. "My mum fancies you" the girl comments mischieviously, causing me to look up from my task and laugh. She turns her young eyes towards a nearby area of the hall in which two women sit contentedly close to one another. I find the sight warms my heart slightly.

"What is your name?" I ask kindly.

"Elizabeth" the girl states, stretching up to her full height proudly, "Most people call me Liz, though". I don't have to feign my smile.

"I'm glad to meet another Liz" I say, passing the now signed manifesto down to her. Her confidence in approaching me told me that she hadn't been sent over on her parents' request. And I thought my interest in Labour Party politics had begun early.

"Have you a favourite in the leadership contest?" I query. It felt odd to ask a child so young that question, yet I'm fully understood. The younger Liz taps her Velcro shoes on the ground, deep in thought. "Andy" she decides, "He's cute". _Yes, Liz, you are actually having this conversation with a child_.

"He is cute, you're quite right" I reply, fighting the urge to laugh, "Very nice eyes". Liz giggles and glances back over to her parents. One of them now approaches, with a slightly panicked expression on her face.

"Oh, Liz, I thought I told you not to bother her" the lady says, crouching down to match her daughter's height. She then looks up to me with apologetic eyes and pink cheeks. "I'm ever so sorry, Ms Nelson" she goes on. I give young Liz a wink.

"She's a fan" her mother adds. It was flattering to know I had such things amongst the younger generation. Given my incompetence with technology, it was respect misplaced.

"I don't mind. You have a very charming daughter" I compliment, "Though I can't see what has inspired such interest". Liz beams, clutching her manifesto close.

"But you're wonderful" the lady blurts, pink now turning to red as she regretted the abruptness of her words. "Goodness, you'll make _me_ blush soon" I joke, "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you both". The lady nods silently, taking Liz's hand and leading her back to their seats.

"Bye!" the girl calls to me, waving happily. I return her wave and resume my walk to my seat, grin plastered on my face. It was a brief encounter, and a relatively uneventful one, yet it dealt me a great degree of joy.

"I'm glad you've cheered up" Sadiq Khan greets, standing so to allow me room to squeeze past. I could have managed it anyway, given his lack of height and my lack of weight. "You seemed rather gloomy earlier".

"I'm perfectly fine" I tell him politely. If I had looked gloomy, I hadn't been aware of it. Certain things pressed on my mind, most prominently the questions raised about my future in politics, but nothing to make me truly miserable.

"Nervous?" Sadiq asks. I suppose I would just have to put up with his questions for now.

"I've no reason to be nervous. It's our candidates who should be feeling that way" I answer, reaching into my pocket for my phone. I open up Twitter and casually scroll through a number of last minute pledges of allegiance from my colleagues. Most had a preference in the contest, but were keen to point out that they'd happily serve whomever won. I don't think I've ever had to fawn for the attention of my party leader.

"Have you any predictions?" Jack whispers from my right. I lower my voice and glance around cautiously. "Not with so many journalists in the room, no" I tell him quietly. I give him a knowing look and turn my eyes back to my phone. _It was going to be Ed_.

"I'm heading off to the backbenches no matter who wins" Jack sighs, "I've done my bit, I think". He had told me as much earlier in the year, but the repetition makes it no easier. It would be very odd indeed to not sit with Jack on the frontbench. Then again, it might be that I end up joining him.

"I've a mind of follow you" I admit. Anyone else might have tried to convince me otherwise, but Jack simply looks sympathetic. "We've had a good run, but I suspect our days of glory are over" he says, "New Labour is no longer new". We had discussed this at length before, and I had already conceded that brand was now an outdated one, but it was still a truth I found difficult to stomach. It was rather like a child being expelled from school.

Relative silence descends over the hall as a lady with rather unkempt blonde hair takes to the stage, papers in hand. Ann Black, the chair of the NEC. She did, potentially, hold the future of the Labour Party in her hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen" she says, "It is my great pleasure to introduce to you our leadership candidates". Each emerges as their name is read out, taking the seats allocated to them at the front. I give Andy, who looks incredibly nervous, a reassuring smile as he sits down. Ed, in contrast, appeared a picture of confidence. To think he had once been so _awkward_.

"Why do I get the feeling this is going to take a while?" Jack mutters.

The first round sees Diane, predictably, eliminated. I had only ever spoken of her as a leader in mockery. I would at the most credit her for widening the debate of the contest.

The second round inspires more sadness in me, but no less surprise. Andy is eliminated, giving a small smile and nodding gamely. It was always going to be a stretch. Why Ed Balls had beaten him I did not know.

Balls' luck runs dry by the third round, as he joins the others in their elimination. Votes are redistributed, and so we all await the final result. Ed and David sit to close to one another, yet I fear they had never been so far apart. David was a much harder soul than Ed. He wouldn't take to his brother's victory with much warmth.

And so the numbers rise, percentages seemingly flying about the place. I wonder whether Liz the younger is keeping up any better than I. My inner maths student struggles to keep up with the tallies.

Once I do catch up, however, it becomes clear to me that the result would be decided by the votes of our affiliates, such as the _trade unions_. I listen carefully as David's numbers are read out. 13% of affiliates were on his side. I already had a strong feeling that Peter would indeed be owing me £20 by the end of this.

And then there is Ed.

Behind in the MPs section, and behind in the members section. There is total silence as the waiting delegates listen intently to Ann Black's every word. I could even hear mild gasps when each percentage was read out. Those gasps, however, were promptly replaced by a great cheer.

 _19%_. The half-way mark was passed, and all of a sudden the people around me are on their feet. I rise to my own and soon find myself clapping most enthusiastically. I watch as Ed and David embrace, both smiling. I doubted both were genuine.

With ecstatic members and friends all around, I see Ed turn towards the stage with a look of pride in his eyes. I felt incredibly proud as he stepped up in preparation for his speech. I didn't give myself any credit for his ascension in politics, as I didn't think I deserved any. I was simply glad to have seen him grow. I certainly hadn't expected to see this sight when first I looked upon him on that frightfully cold winter night in the 1990s. 'A Christmas present' Harriet had described him at the time.

And as Ed, the leader of my party and extremely worthy successor, takes his place and speaks his first words as one of the country's most prominent leaders, my mind wanders slightly. I want desperately for my happiness to last, yet I can't help but feel sad. For whilst Ed had undoubtedly grown in character and confidence, I saw one major flaw in him as a leader.

Upon Tony's election to the leadership, I pictured him standing before 10 Downing Street perfectly.

It was easy to see Gordon doing the same.

No matter how much I wished it, I got no such image from Ed, and that saddened me more than I cared to admit.


	70. The Chaos of Conference.

**26th September, 2010.**

**Manchester, England.**

"Alexander Nelson, you had better not be telling me what I think you are". I spoke sternly down the phone, but quietly so as not to draw attention to myself. My son's voice has not an ounce of fear in it. On the contrary, he appeared entirely unaffected.

"I couldn't leave Spock on his own" Alex protests. I sigh and rub my temple, wary of another headache developing. "So you smuggled him into your dorm room" I shake my head, "You've been warned about this, Alex". I couldn't see Eton expelling Alex for harbouring a cat in his room, though I doubted his headmaster would be happy.

"He's happiest when he's with me" my son goes on, determined to make his case, "The other boys have promised to say nothing".

"And you're sure they'll keep their silence?" I ask sceptically. It was unlikely that Alex had any 'enemies' at Eton, as he didn't have the temperament for such a thing. However, I was aware of almost bullying habits of public school boys. The idea that every boy in Alex's house could keep quiet was, to me, a ridiculous one.

"They will now that I'm House Captain" Alex declares proudly. My expression softens and I forget about his stupid cat momentarily. "You never mentioned that" I smile, "Oh, well done".

"I did try to tell you when I last called, but you just kept talking about your party problems" my son replies. I instantly begin to feel guilty. One of the perks of being free from the role of Leader of the Opposition was that I could now focus on my family again. It saddened me to think that I had brushed them aside.

"I'm sorry" I sigh, "Well, it's all over now. We have a leader". Ed's speech had been good, but still my inner conflict continued to mount. Even when straining, and admittedly slightly drunk, I failed to see my old friend standing before Downing Street. It seemed petty, but it was vital in the race for No. 10.

From the corner of my eye I notice a pale and shoddy figure lingering. "You'll have to forgive me, darling" I say, "I must go". Alex sighs softly from the other end, triggering my sense of guilt once again. He bids me goodbye, and then my phone is slipped back into my pocket. Somewhat amusingly, the scruffy specimen I see waiting for me is my most prominent aide.

"Sorry I wasn't around to prep you for your interview, Ms Nelson" Jonathan says, rubbing his eyes wearily, "I must have been distracted".

"Asleep more like" I retort, "Still waring off the cocktails are we?". I shake my head as Jonathan rubs his. He leads the way through the conference building towards the dark corner designated for media hacks.

"That's the last time I attend any party of Alastair Darling's" my advisor grumbles, tired eyes scouting the nearby area for the desk of Andrew Neil, a BBC veteran who had attempted to take me on many a time.

"Your support of Ed Balls didn't pay off then?" I smirk. Jonathan rolls his eyes, a trait I suppose he's picked up from me. He had once been so hapless. He still had his moments, naturally, but we got on far better than expected.

"Ms Nelson!" a familiar Scottish voice calls. I turn my head and find myself confronted by Andrew Neil himself. He gestures for me to join him, but before doing so I give Jonathan a nod.

"I do hope you're going to reveal your questions to me" I joke.

"Knowing you, you've already worked out half of them already" Neil replies, "I just wanted a quick chat". I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Heavens, a chat with a journalist" I exclaim sarcastically, "This is quite the novelty". Neil let's his glasses slide a little further down the bridge of his nose, and above the rims he looks at me coolly.

"A little bird tells me that Charles Kennedy spent the night on your sofa the other day" he whispers. A frown forms on my face almost immediately. I replace my air of casualness with one of sternness.

"I know such little birds to chirp nothing but baseless rubbish" I reply sharply. I had been quite adamant that no one should know about the incident. Charles wouldn't wish to have such information spread, and the only other person in the apartment that night was William Lewis. I would have to talk to _him_ later. He was beginning to bore me, in all honesty.

"I ask only curiously" Neil defends, taking his seat behind his usual Sunday Politics desk. I tut and give him a dismissive look.

"That's part of the problem with people of your profession" I scathe, "You're _too_ curious". Silence falls as a technician approaches to powder my face. Neil busies himself with the cards before him. I doubted he had written his questions on them.

Jonathan stands just behind the cameras, attempting to stand straight. I wouldn't be surprised if he collapsed at any moment. I suppose a kinder boss would have allowed him time to recover.

"Joining me now is the former cabinet minister and interim leader Elizabeth Nelson" Neil introduces, drawing my attention to him once again, "Ms Nelson, thank you for coming on the programme". I smile politely and nod my head.

"Thank you for having me" I reply.

"Ms Nelson, do you think Ed Miliband has what it takes to be Prime Minister?" my interviewer asks bluntly. _Ah_.

"I know the media are keen to dismiss Ed, but he is much stronger than most realise" I say, for it isn't technically a lie, "I've known him for a long time, and I think he'll prove an excellent leader". Neil looks at me over the rims of his glasses, boredom at the obviousness of my answer evident in his eyes.

"Some might say that's rather forced praise" he assesses slyly.

"And some might say the Earth is flat" I protest, "It doesn't mean what they say is to be believed. I like Ed very much, and, I repeat, I think he'll prove an excellent leader". Neil looks almost amused now.

"There are many in your party who say that the wrong Miliband was chosen yesterday" he scathes, revelling in his interrogation, "What do you say to that?". I manage another polite smile and tut audibly.

"I say that those who feel that way ought to watch the footage of the results again" I reply calmly, "It was a democratic process".

"Yes, but a process that produced a result that many people are unhappy with" Neil presses on, leaning back casually in his seat, "Surely David Miliband would have been the better option?". We would have to put up with talk like this for many years to come, I suspected. Many accused Ed of 'stabbing his brother in the back'. It was easy to see how it might be seen that way, but I still thought it cobblers. David would just have to suck it up and move on.

"No doubt there are some who feel that way, but I dispute the idea that somehow the wrong Miliband brother was chosen yesterday" I respond sternly, not caring whether my dislike for David was veiled or not, "The leadership election is over, and we ought to move on".

"Do you expect a position in the new shadow cabinet?" I'm pressed. Still, I smile calmly.

"I expect nothing" I say, "Of course, I'll consider any position offered to me, but as a relic of the last government I daren't be so presumptuous". A hint of a smirk flashes on Neil's lips. He thinks he's spotted a weakness in me. "I thought you were a good friend of Mr Miliband's?" He questions.

"I am" I reply, resisting the irritated sigh building in my lungs, "But my friendship with him doesn't need change the fact that I am part of an old brand". I'm reminded of my many conversations with Jack in this moment, and indeed that one particularly bothersome Shadow Cabinet meeting. It pained me somewhat to do so, but I had to face the fact that the fresh-faced gang I had joined back in the 90s was no longer fresh-faced. Thirteen years of government had done that.

Abruptly, Neil changes tact. "You and I have been in this business a very long time now" he assesses, "Over that time, I've heard certain _whispers_ ". I'm tempted to laugh.

"With a Commons as noisy as ours, I suspect people are simply recovering their voices" I poke. It was far too easy for me to make comments such as this, and far too much fun. Neil was, however, ahead of me for once.

"So I imagine" he smiles conceitedly, "But I've also heard that you get along remarkably well with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne".

"Someone has to" is my immediate response. My expression remains unchanged, but inside I squirm slightly. Never had this been brought up in an interview. I had always been grateful for that. I knew exactly what Andrew Neil was trying to get at, and I didn't like it one bit.

"A number of those we've spoken to in preparation for this interview seem to be under the impression that you were once _involved_ with Mr Osborne" he bites, "What do you say to that?". _Fuck you_ , that is what I say.

"Andrew, I realise MPs often act like children, but this is not a playground" I respond irritably, "It's true, I knew him at university, and I'm able to maintain a civil conversation with him now, but that is as far as my _involvement_ extends". I wouldn't let on any more than that. It had never been formally decided between George and I that said _involvement_ be kept secret, but instead silently acknowledged. I couldn't, nor wouldn't, wipe that particular episode from my memory. Indeed, I remembered my first meeting with him most clearly.

_To me he seems somewhat awkward, shy perhaps. There is certainly something oddly endearing about him, though. "Elizabeth" I say, offering my hand to him. The boy blinks at me, before taking it and giving it a feeble shake. His hands fall to his sides the moment I withdraw my own. "George" he replies, smiling shyly._

Thankfully, the interview moves on, and after several minutes of discussion on affairs both national and international, I am freed. Neil mutters to himself whilst I ditch my microphone and approach Jonathan, who dutifully waits for me, once more.

"I've had rather a brilliant phone call just now" he grins, "Guess who it was". I'm glad to hear it was a good phone call, given the substance of my interview.

"You can call President Obama back and tell him that I'm not interested in eloping with him" I instruct jokingly. Barack Obama was rather a dreamy fellow, but I had decided in my teenage years that the only man whom I would be willing to elope with was Patrick Swayze.

"Hat Trick" Jonathan tells me. I frown. I had been expecting a little more. "Who?" I ask.

"The company that produces Have I Got News For You" my advisor informs me, "They ask if you'd like to host the show next week". _Have I Got News For You_. It was essential viewing in Westminster, just as Spitting Image had been. I could recall many an MP telling me of how they wished they would be featured in puppet-form on Spitting Image during the 90s. The same MPs often expressed a desire to appear on Have I Got News For You, too. Few were so lucky. Naturally, I had already made my mind up.

"Well that has brightened my mood somewhat" I smile, "I'd love to". Jonathan nods happily and scribbles a reminder for himself down on his notepad. I glance about the dark media-swarmed corner Neil had dragged me into and shiver.

"I think we've spent enough time in the pit" I sigh, wary of being approached by any lurking journalists, "Come along, Jonathan". I wasn't entirely sure where I was planning on going. Prefably away from those who had just seen my interview. It hadn't been a difficult one for me, but the mention of George had left me rather annoyed. The twinkle that appeared in Andrew Neil's eye as he mentioned it told me that someone had been gossiping.

Only a select few knew of the extent to which I had been, to use Neil's chosen word, involved with George, and all of them I trusted to stay silent. Photos did exist, but all were kept away from prying eyes. As for the diaries I kept around the time, they were tucked away nicely in the attic of my family home. I suspect the person who revealed such a well-kept secret was the same little bird who had told Neil about Charles throwing himself, quite literally, at my mercy the other week.

"Jonathan, do you trust William Lewis?" I blurt as we walk. Jonathan looks to me inquisitively and considers it.

"Well, you seem to, so yes" he replies, "Why?". I _thought_ I trusted him. I was no longer sure whether it was wise. I would have to ponder on this in my own time.

"Nothing".


	71. Irritations.

**11th October, 2010.**

**House of Commons, London.**

Far from the first time in my life, I was annoyed. It had been a difficult summer for me, followed by a comparatively smooth conference season. My party had its new leader, there had been no great conference cock-ups and my stint on Have I Got News For You had been well-received.

Paul Merton's team, as was often the case, won, leaving Ian Hislop's, which I favoured secretly, to wallow in yet another defeat.

_"How have you survived defeat after defeat for twenty years?" I had asked after the recording._

_"Are you asking for tips?" Ian joked in response, "I just let it all go and give as many fake smiles as I can". I had laughed at the comically OTT grins he proceeded to give me._

_"Odd" I remark, "That sounds just like Labour's attitude to the last general election"._

Then, I had mocked my party only lightly. In this current moment, I was genuinely annoyed by it. I had returned  to find that some of my colleagues were briefing against me. Indeed, in the PLP meeting I had just attended, I was verbally leapt upon by a gang of left-wing rebels and told bluntly to resign.

It wasn't my seat that they wanted me to vacate. You see, the source of my anger reaches beyond the pathetic ramblings of John McDonnell and company. It was my leader who had given me the greatest headache. 'That's not very sporting of you' you might think, 'he's a good friend of yours'. Be that as it May, it didn't change the fact that I had been well and truly snubbed.

_It had been on the last day of conference, while most were getting drunk in the bar below, that I was summoned to the new leader's makeshift office. The desk of Ed's hotel room had been moved away from the wall, allowing people to sit on either side. I was surprised he hadn't made a plaque for himself out of an old cereal box._

_"Thank you for coming" Ed had smiled as I entered. I had returned his smile, for I was at that point in a good mood. "You've torn me away from the karaoke machine" I commented sarcastically, "But I suppose I can forgive you if you make me Shadow Chancellor"._

_"Damn" Ed joked, "I'll have to call Alan up and apologise". In that moment, I had frozen mid-walk. I hadn't yet heard of any shadow cabinet appointments. There hadn't even been any discussion about the matter in the rooms below. I liked to think that there would be considerable debate about this particular appointment._

_"Alan Johnson?" I had asked, somewhat stunned. Ed had raised an eyebrow at me, clearly oblivious to the problems that a Johnson shadow chancellorship could cause. "You don't approve, then?" Ed asked, inviting me to take the seat opposite him across his desk._

_"You could say that" I had admitted, "Still, if you think it's for the best-"._

_"I do" Ed responded shortly. I had been quite taken aback by his tone. He wasn't, by any means, a bad-tempered person. His was a sweet disposition. To hear him talk in this away astounded me. "Now, never mind Alan" Ed had said, "It's your position that I'd like to discuss". I was to be allowed into the shadow cabinet then, I had thought to myself. I previously wondered whether I'd be excluded for being too Blairite, or whatever the usual line was._

_"I want my shadow cabinet to be one of broad opinion" Ed decided, "And I'm always grateful for bold figures such as yourself". Bold. Was that what I was now? I didn't particularly like that description. It suggested that I was brave for speaking my mind, rather than having the right to._

_"I've thought about it" Ed had told me, "And I've decided to give you Transport"._

You'll forgive my coarseness, but what the _fuck_ do I know about transport?

Yvette Cooper was to take the Foreign Affairs brief, whilst Jim Murphy was given Defence. Alan Johnson, of all people, had been given the second most important position in opposition, and yet I was some how left with transport?

It was true that I had expressed a desire to perhaps shy away from any of the big jobs in opposition, but by that I wasn't implying that I would be content with a brief as dull and minor as transport.

I'd accepted the role as graciously as I could. Ed was my leader now, so I hadn't presumed to be able to change his mind on the matter. It was probably rather snobbish of me, to turn my nose up at a brief that a lot of backbenchers would sacrifice a limb for. Many wished for front bench jobs, but few were so lucky. Given my past, I was perhaps lucky to have a position at all.

But _transport_.

"When was the last time you caught a bus?" Jonathan had asked me, hot on my heels as I marched back from that morning's PLP meeting. "Now that I no longer have a car, I walk" I sigh, lamenting the loss of one of my old perks, "Perhaps I should take up work as a cab driver?".

"Think of all the cyclists you could knock over" Jonathan jokes. In my mood, I wouldn't want to risk it.

"I'll aim for Boris and do us all a favour" I grumble as I unlock the door of my office. I had been moved into the office I had occupied with Peter upon my arrival in parliament. It was considerably damper, but I was allowed to occupy it by myself.

"Now, what were you saying about calling the police?" Jonathan asks. I set my things down on my desk and perched down on my chair. It squeaked terribly. I'd asked for a new one, but no new chair had yet appeared.

"I'm not calling the police" I correct my aide, "I simply intend to pass a few things onto them". I take a key out from cost pocket and insert into the lock of the top drawer of my desk. Yet, when I attempt to turn it, I find the drawer has already been opened. Jonathan clocks the alarm on my face almost immediately.

"What is it?" He asks. Before I answer, I pull the drawer open and have a look inside. It rarely contained much, only that which I wished to keep safe from the world. I had kept the threats I received in their, comfortable in the knowledge that only I could get to them. And now they were gone.

"The notes" I exclaim, "They're missing". I rummage about in the drawer, throwing out anything which I think might obscure said articles. "They've taken a photo, too" I grumble, "And, _oh no_ ". Jonathan's eyes widen, and with haste he rushes over to join me behind the desk.

"What is it?" He asks, "What's missing?". I should have known it would be a mistake to hide the important things at my workplace. I had originally thought it wise because of the level of security in parliament. At all hours, the place was guarded like a high-security prison. A locked drawer, in a locked room, in the well-guarded seat of British government. It should have been fine.

"A locket. It was gold, and, well, it was important" I sigh, slumping in my seat slightly. Jonathan scratches the back of his head and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "A family heirloom?" he asks. I rub my temple in frustration and shake my head.

"No. It was a birthday gift, from a long time ago" I tell him quietly, "It doesn't quite have the same meaning to it now, I suppose, but it's still important to me". I know that makes little sense, and I couldn't blame Jonathan for looking slightly perplexed. _Andrew Neil had already attempted to venture down this particular path in my most recent interview with him_.

"I'll call the police" Jonathan says, reaching for his mobile, "This is theft". I sigh heavily and nod. I glance down at the lock of the opened drawer. It wasn't damaged in any way. It looked perfectly intact. _So how had they got in?_

I left Jonathan to his phone call and took a moment to sit and think things through. The threatening notes had gone. The police would believe that I'd received them, wouldn't they? But what would they be able to do about them? I had no other example of the sender's handwriting.

"I need some fresh air" I tell my advisor, "Do excuse me". Jonathan nods to me and continues to talk away down the phone. I seize my coat from the back of my chair and slip it on. I feel somewhat relieved when I realise there is a half-empty box of cigarettes in one of the pockets. _I definitely needed some fresh air_.

I could return and speak to the police shortly afterwards. I just needed a moment alone. I exit the office and hastily make my way down the corridor. "Is everything alright, Ms Nelson?" a voice calls. I look up to see a young woman in Commons uniform standing at the side of the corridor. I find I recognise her, but I'm unsure as to why.

"Yes, thank you" I say politely, watching her as I walk by. There is a glint in her eye, as though quietly gleeful. "Might I ask your name?" I ask, turning back to her suddenly. She stares at me silently. It was almost _unnerving_. Either this particular member of staff was disturbed, or they had something against me.

"Angela" the young woman tells me, "Angela Campion". You're joking me. The surname Campion paired with a steely, almost hateful gaze.

"Campion?" I repeat. The woman simply blinks at me. I study her face for another moment, before turning and making my way back down the corridor, this time at a much quicker pace.

Suddenly, my need for a cigarette was even greater.


	72. A Grey New Year.

**3rd April, 2011.**

**House of Commons, London.**

And so the term continues.

I awoke to yet another grey morning, and spent an hour to two preparing for the day. I was expected in the Commons later, for another session of _Transport Questions_. Never have I wanted to tear my eyes out to much.

Jonathan attempts to lighten my mood. "At least you were able to have that Campion girl sacked" he reminds me. Angela Campion had been a blockage easily removed. But I found little solace in her removal.

"But her threats remain unchallenged" I sigh as I walk down one of the many corridors of the Commons, "As does her theft of my things". I rub my temple and quicken my pace, wary of being apprehended by some well-meaning colleague.

"It was never proven that she broke into your office" Jonathan, annoyingly, points out. As I reach the door of my office, I remember the glint in the Campion girl's eyes. If only that could count in a court of law.

"And who else do you think it was?" I ask impatiently. Jonathan holds his hands up in defence and takes a step back. "Don't jump down my throat" he protests, "Besides, it was _months_ ago". _I'm overreacting again, aren't I?_ I found myself to be rather highly-strung of late. I blamed the lack of sleep.

"Moving on" I say, changing tact before I got too worked up, "You can help me prep for the session later". Jonathan follows me into the office and shuts the door behind him. Remarkably, he never looked bored. I did feel sorry for him sometimes. Why he stayed by me, I did not know.

"Would the Minister care to run me over with his car, so that I don't have to ask any more of these sodding questions?" I grumble, sinking into my chair.

"Come on" Jonathan reasons, "It could be worse". I think on that for a second or two.

"True" I concede, "I could be on the Treasury team. Imagine having _Balls_ as your superior". I shudder at the thought. Alan Johnson, for decent reasons, had resigned from his post early in the year. I was told that Balls was Ed's third choice for the position. It was rather an indictiment of the man.

"Almost as bad as being a grandee assigned to a relatively insignificant brief by an ineffectual leader" Jonathan comments quietly. I narrow my eyes at him from where I sit, or rather slump.

"Rub my demise in a little more why don't you" I reply. Jonathan hangs his coat up on the available peg and takes the seat opposite my desk.

"So you agree that Ed is an ineffectual leader?" Jonathan picks up. I straighten myself in my seat and give him a dismissive look.

"I never said that" I respond. I sometimes tried to comfort myself by remembering that I was lucky to receive a position at all. Very few of my old colleagues from the 90s remained in frontline jobs. Many had already announced their intention to stand down at the next election.

"But you don't think much of him" Jonathan continues. I didn't like to talk of Ed in this way, given how fond I was of him, but I did, admittedly, have criticisms a plenty regarding his leadership.

"I criticise everyone. Why should Ed be an exception?" I defend. Jonathan simply raises an eyebrow at me.

"Well, no doubt there will more tension to come" he says, rummaging about in his bag for his notes, "What, with this AV referendum coming up". Ah yes, the less than enthralling decision on the alternative vote.

Voting reform was one of the few things the Lib Dems had managed to stick to since entering into coalition. I couldn't blame the Conservatives for trouncing them. It was always bound to happen. Though I did sympathise with Clegg. He looked as miserable as me these days.

"Our party has no official position on the matter. Ed is perfectly within his rights to back the Yes campaign" I decide, "Just as I'm perfectly within my rights to choose the opposing side". It had been an easy decision for me, one that most of my colleagues had also made. _A turkey doesn't vote for Christmas._

"Have you given any more thought to that proposal?" Jonathan asks, setting his utterly fascinating Transport notes out on my desk. I pick a sheet up and scan it with tired eyes.

"The presidency of the No campaign?" I recall, "David was hoping to get one of his lot in the role, so naturally _I've_ accepted". It was most flattering to be offered the position. Given the dullness of my work nowadays, it felt good to have a feeling of real control again.

"I meant the Oxford University offer" Jonathan corrects, "Regarding the research paper?". I set the paper I hold down, mind digesting the many bus figures I had glanced over.

"I must confess, I'd forgotten about it" I ponder, "It does sound rather interesting". Jonathan looks sceptical.

"So interesting that you forgot it existed" he retorts. I was grateful for Jonathan's confidence, but less so for his quick wit. I was too proud to appreciate people of similar speed to my own.

"A paper on the left in British politics, commissioned by my old university" I smile, for the first time that day, "I'm proud to even be considered for consultation". It would be good to do something different, given the lack of excitement in my life. I had always thought that I would end up an academic if I didn't end up a politician. _Perhaps there was still time for me._

"Have you any idea who's authoring the paper?" Jonathan queries, scribbling over his own written thoughts and writing new ones. I watched him the upmost curiosity.

"I've been invited to call by one evening and discuss it further" I inform my aide, "I think I probably will".

I'm about to begin my work when my phone begins to buzz in my pocket. For once I'm not sorry to have an incoming call. My mood lifts considerably when I see that it's from my darling Alex.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you" I hear my son speak. His voice had deepened somewhat, and with every passing term at Eton his accent became ever more polished, but I was happy to hear it. "Not at all" I insist, "Shouldn't you be in lesson?". I glance at my watch to be sure if the time.

Alex pauses before replying. "It's the beginning to half-term, Mother" he reminds me, "We agreed that I'd travel back to Oxfordshire this morning". I'm tempted to bang my head against my desk. I was so caught up in my own frustration that I had forgotten to concentrate.

"Shit" I mutter under my breath. Alex gives a small laugh from the other end of the line. "Oh dear" he says simply. I glance once again at my watch and consider my options. Even if he did now have a week off, I wanted to be with him. I also had my _beloved_ Transport questions to attend. I took my job very seriously, but there were some things duties that I was happy to neglect.

"Give me two hours" I tell my son, "I'll be with you soon". Jonathan looks up from his work with a furrowed brow. I get to my feet and seize my coat from the back of my chair. "I don't want to take you away from your work" Alex says, "Though I must say it would be splendid to see you. Uncle Nevin isn't exactly cheerful company".

That didn't surprise me at all. I could recall my brother's smile with an alarming lack of clarity these days. How his poor daughter coped I did not know. She had an appallingly conceited mother and an increasingly absent father.

I sometimes felt guilty about not giving my children the attention they deserve, but compared to my brother I was the most devoted mother possible.

* * *

Henley remained unchanged.

The town was still as bustling as ever, and the lands that surrounded it were as green as ever. I was sad to see more pubs and shops closed, but I suspected that was a side effect of the country's ongoing economic difficulties. I didn't envy George in the slightest.

The Nelson was situated some distance away from town, quite literally in the middle of no where. To an outsider, it looked like a pristine, perfect estate. It did indeed look pretty, but the problems it faced were less so.

"Nevin, you're haemorrhaging money all over the place" I cry, beholding the figures put before me with disgust, "Would it kill you to actually lift a finger and manage this estate properly?".

"They took the family business away from me because I couldn't handle it" my brother says from the window he aimlessly stares out of, "Perhaps they should take my land too". I sigh and set the files handed to me down on a nearby table. The study was much darker now that Nevin inhabited it. Curtains were left half-drawn and books were left all over the room. 

"Might I remind you that you have something much more important that land to take care of" I snap, "Your daughter". I had left Catherine with Alex. I heard baking mentioned before the room, and quietly considered their chances of producing something edible. They couldn't be any worse than me.

"I want her to well in life" Nevin says, "What good will it do to be influenced by me?". He turns his head and looks at me with unbearably sad eyes. I missed my brother. More than anything I wished for him to return to his old self, but it didn't look as though we would reach that stage any time soon.

"It'll do her good to know that you actually care about her" I suggest irritably. To that, he turns sharply. He finally tears himself away from the window and approaches me. I worry for a moment that he'll snap at me.

"Does she think that?" he asks quietly, "That I don't care about her?". Before I can give an answer he brushes past me and leaves the study. After filtering my frustrations through a very heavy sigh, I pursue him. When I reach the lounge, I find him sat with poor Catherine on the carpet before the fireplace, talking to her animatedly about her day. I didn't understand how that one conversation changed his mind, nor did I know whether he had gone to her simply to dispel the idea that he didn't care for her.

I decide to leave them alone, and instead retreat into the kitchen, from which a range of delightful smells already pour. "What are you making?" I ask my son, who happily beats away at whatever mixture he's concocting.

"Cupcakes" he replies, "We have no opportunities for baking at Eton, and I've been dying to try this recipe for months". I smile at the look of genuine happiness in his eye.

"So, how are things in the mad house?" he asks casually. I subconsciously begin to rub my temple. I had instructed Jonathan to excuse me from this afternoon's session, and to ask one of my shadow ministers to stand in for me. Any thing but _fucking_ Transport Questions.

"Positively riveting for me" I sigh, "This AV referendum may provide me with some form of excitement". Voting reform was far from the most interesting topic, but leading the No campaign would certainly be an experience.

"Why are you against AV?" Alex asks curiously.

"Turkeys don't vote for Christmas" I repeat. I usually used the phrase in jest, but there was truth in it. I wasn't too concerned about my own seat, but I worried for many of my colleagues. First Past the Post was simple and effective. I saw little need to change it.

"No, I doubt they do" Alex says, "Even if they did, they'd get Easter instead".


	73. Dismissal.

**11th April, 2011.**

**Opposition Offices, London.**

Now that I held a position of little consequence, I was denied a spot close to the centre of the shadow cabinet table. Instead I would settle for seats on the very edges. I was grateful for the likes of Andy and Sadiq keeping me company. I was surrounded by people and yet I often felt rather lonely in these meetings. Ed was a matter of feet away yet he felt oddly distant. Still, my inner feelings would have to wait for now, for I hear the man himself enter the room behind me.

"Settle down, you lot" Balls barks as our leader takes his place. Ed fumbles with his folders slightly and loses a few items underneath the table. I nudge Sadiq in the ribs when I hear him attempting to stifle his laughter.

"We've got a lot to get through" Ed says, slightly embarrassed at his earlier blip, "But I thought we could begin by discussing AV for a minute or two-".

 _Do we have to?_ Ed had been very keen to remind us all that none of us were bound to any side in the upcoming referendum. He had given us our freedom, and I was grateful. But still he tried to find opportunities in which he could attempt to sway us to his point of view. In all honesty, I questioned his motives in backing the Yes campaign. I got the impression he only did so to oppose David...

"Don't look too thrilled, Liz" Balls comments jokingly. I snap out from my thoughts and glare at him. How kind of him to pick on me in this way. Now I had the entire shadow cabinet looking at me, as though I'd been giving Ed the middle finger behind his back.

"Alright, Ed" my Ed cusses, "Is everything alright, Liz?". I nod quietly, before looking back to Balls and shooting him another stern glance. Ed opens his mouth to continue, but is interrupted yet again. I did pity him. Shadow cabinet had been more or less the same when I chaired it.

"I hear through the grapevine that Liz has accepted the role of President of No to AV" Diane Abbott chips in, ever keen to try and undermine me. I turn my eyes in her direction and arch an eyebrow.

"I fear the investigative efforts of Abbott's Angels have been wasted" I reply, "It's public knowledge by now". Diane frowns at the colleagues around her who begin to chuckle.

"You needn't be hostile" Abbott drawls on, "I've made many criticisms of the Yes campaign myself". I simply blink at her. I was well aware that tonight's session would be a long one. Diane's wittering may as well have been its own item on the agenda.

"Heavens, I might have to jump ship" I comment. Ed looks to me warily.

"I'm not sure how helpful you're being, Elizabeth" he says, almost sternly. _Elizabeth_. I almost squirm at the word. Parents often scolded their children by using their full names. He was the leader of my party, not my mother. _Elizabeth_. I hoped to God that it didn't stick.

I keep my sarcastic remarks to myself for the remainder of the sitting. I contribute to discussion, particularly on action in Libya. Foreign intervention being a point both sore and strong for me, you understand. I'm not silent, but I do feel I have less to say. I wasn't _asked_ for my opinion, either. Tony and Gordon would often turn to me in cabinet meetings and ask for my thoughts. _Those days truly were over_.

I find I'm rather surprised when Ed asks to speak with me at the end of the session. My colleagues gather their things and trail out of the room. Andy offers to wait for me, but I insist that he go home. I got the impression Ed would rather a private audience.

"I apologise for Diane" Ed says, smiling up at me from his seat. I scoff at the thought of her. She had always irritated me, so I expected little else. "I'd rather you apologised for giving her a job" I retort.

"Come now" Ed laughs softly, "I want my cabinet to one of a wide range of views. I don't want it filled entirely with people of the old order". _The old order_. No doubt I was regarded as some kind of High Priestess of that order. Perhaps that's why John McDonnell once called me a witch.

"I wanted to talk to you about this No to AV presidency" Ed goes on. _Lord have mercy_.

"You disapprove?" I ask. Any doubts I have are cast aside by the memory that Ed himself had allowed me freedom on this matter. I had nothing to be guilty about.

"Well, I, err, I suppose I-" Ed mumbles, reminding me very much of the young bespectacled Ed I had befriended in the 1990s, "I suppose I would have liked to discuss it with you".

"We're discussing it now" I reply. Ed gives a sigh that sounds almost frustrated. I suspect I may need to tone down the dryness sooner rather than later.

"I only meant I'd have liked to offer advice on the matter" Ed says, slightly crossly, "Never mind."

"Forgive me, Ed" I say, gentler this time, "But you're not my adviser any more". I mean to bid him a good evening and leave at that point, but before I can make my exit Ed responds to me in a tone alarmingly sharp. From anyone else, it would have sounded about as sharp as a blunt knife, but from Ed, my beloved old friend, it felt like razors.

"But I am your leader" he snaps. I almost stumble backwards. There is a moment of silence and I simply look at him, completely and utterly taken aback by the heat in his voice. I fail to recognise him for a second or two.

"Still, it's getting rather late" Ed says, clearing his throat and attempting a smile, "I shan't keep you any longer". I hesitate for a moment more, before nodding and making for the door. I practically wince when I hear him speak up again.

"By the way, I bumped into Charles Kennedy earlier. He was looking for you" Ed informs me, glancing over to me, "He's usually in the bar at this time". I narrow my eyes. I would be deeply disappointed if that was an alcoholism jibe. Seeing as it's Ed, I decide to overlook it.

"Did he say what it was he needed?" I ask, hand curling around the knob of the meeting room door. Ed shakes his head, before giving a small goofy grin, as though he's thought of something tremendously funny.

"He might be after shelter again" he comments under his breath. I feel my brows furrow sharply, and with slight irritation I face. "I beg your pardon?" I ask. Ed shakes his head once more.

"Nothing" he replies, "Good night, Liz". I'm glad he doesn't refer to me as 'Elizabeth' again. I would have to cuss him if he did that. He might be after shelter again. I knew exactly what that referred to. The incident in which a drunken Charles had arrived at my flat in need to help had occurred quite some time ago, and only three people had been privy at the time. Someone had leaked it, and to make matters worse, a number of my colleagues found a great deal of humour in it. It came to something when the right of the Conservative Party were behaving with greater civility.

Goodness, what a depressing evening it had been. I was beginning to think that the Commons bar was a _perfect_ meeting place.

* * *

"Steady on" Charles warns with an amused expression, "It's me who's supposed to have the problem". I set my third empty glass down on the table we sit at and give a heavy sigh.

"It's been a long week" I tell him. My head was remarkably clear given that I had just downed three consecutive whiskys.

"It's Monday" Charles points out.

"It's been a very long Monday" I struggle. Charles gives me a sympathetic smile and gives my left hand a light squeeze. I was glad my relationship with Charles hadn't suffered in any way. I had argued with Gordon throughout the years, and Ed was making things difficult for me of late, but I rarely found myself at odds with Charles. I was very grateful for that in the current climate.

"Anyway, what is it you wanted to be speak to me about?" I ask, distracting myself from my desire for another Scotch, "I get the impression it's something of importance". Charles pauses for a moment, before snapping his fingers in the air and reaching deep into his trouser pocket for something.

He withdraws his hand and opens it up to me. Sitting on his palm is something long and gold and _familiar_. "My locket!" I cry, an immense feeling of relief washing over me. I take it gently and gaze at it, fondly noticing each tiny glint and shimmer in the dim light of the bar. To think I had missed something so small so much.

"Wherever did you find it?" I ask, "It was-" I begin.

"Stolen, I know" Charles finishes, "Thankfully, it's been retrieved". He gives me a warm smile and fastens the clasp for me at the back of my neck. I would keep it on my person from now on. At least that way I wouldn't lose sight of it again.

"Oh, thank you, Charles" I beam.

"It isn't me you have to thank" he shakes his head, "It's your old friend George who deserves gratitude". I frown and study Charles' expression for a moment. _He wasn't joking_.

"I don't understand" I say. Charles shifts closer in his seat, as though ready to tell a truly riveting tale. I doubted it would be quite so fascinating, but it was still a tale I needed to hear.

"He approached me this morning and asked that I give it back to you" my old friend explains, "Apparently, he recognised it at a party he attended recently. Except it wasn't your neck that it hung around". I need less than a second to think of the obvious candidate.

"The Campion girl" I decide, "The one who stole it". I could imagine her, parading around some swanky hall bearing the locket as though it was her own, mimicking my movements and mocking me. How she managed to get into an event that boasted George on its guest list was beyond me.

"No, not the Campion girl. Another fond favourite of yours" Charles corrects me, "Eva Smith". Her name inspired more frustration in me than that of Campion. Eva Smith, the wicked creature who had plagued my brother and given him a marriage most miserable.

"Don't flip a table" Charles warns, "I don't know how she came by it. I don't even think George knows. If he does, he would have said, surely? He seemed almost frightened of her, to be frank....". Charles' voice trails off slightly, but he soon picks up a new threat and continues.

"He didn't say how exactly he got it from her. He isn't exactly _intimidating_ " he adds, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Still, it's yours again now. Keep it safe".

I needed another whisky. Questions flew around my mind frantically. _How did she get hold of the locket? What did George say to her? Why hadn't he returned the locket to me himself?_ I feel the last question is one Charles may have the answer to. However, when I put it to him I'm disappointed to hear that he has no answer.

"He didn't seem particularly busy" Charles assesses, "But then he is a Tory". I give a small laugh and glance down at where the locket rests on my chest. I couldn't recall when last I'd spoken to George. It was odd, really. For many months I would bump into him repeatedly. Now, it almost felt as though he was _avoiding_ me.

"Why do you still hold on to that locket, Liz?" Charles asks, as though suggesting I should have binned it years ago. Perhaps I should have, but I couldn't. Naturally, that wasn't the answer I gave Charles.

"It's a nice piece of jewellery". Charles snorts into his pint. It's then that I am struck by another question.

"Say, do you think Eva Smith acquired any of the other stolen items?" I ponder aloud. Charles sets his glass down and scratches his chin.

"What else was taken from your office that day?" he asks.

"Only the threats I was sent" I remind him, "Oh, and a photo". Charles stared off into the distance thoughtfully.

"A photo of whom?" he queries. I can picture it perfectly. It's an old thing, with slightly creased edges and the poor camera quality typical of the 90s. In it is a child of tender years, with thick ginger curls and soft brown eyes. He's a sweet young thing, sporting a happy expression and the faint beginnings of a boyish smile on his lips.

"Alex" I say, wishing more than ever that I could have the photo back. As angry as I was that all evidence of the threatening letters had been taken away, the photo meant more to me.

"What would Smith want with a picture of your boy?" Charles wonders, already dismissing the idea of her possessing it, "It's hardly incriminating". Quite distracted, I continue to dwell on the sweet image of my young son and his soft curls and dark eyes. I remain aware long enough to give my friend a simple answer.

"I've no idea."


	74. From Oxford to Westminster.

**13th April, 2010.**

**Oxford University, Oxfordshire.**

It had been some eighteen years since I had left Oxford, and yet it hadn't changed at all. Students still cycled down narrow streets at too fast a pace, and tutors still took themselves far too seriously. But to the university's advantage, at this time of day at least, there was no ghastly Bullingdon Club charging about the place. No doubt the scene before me, a most pleasant sight, would change dramatically once the sun went down.

My original plan had been to call in during the evening, but I had woken this morning in a good mood and decided to take advantage. I would be able to reach London in time for Prime Minister's Questions no problem.

"Ms Nelson!" a chirpy voice calls. A man in a slightly creased brown suit dashes out of a nearby passageway and skids to a halt before me, bent over slightly as he fights to regain his breath. With as much energy as he can muster, he holds his palm out to me.

"Simon Caney. How do you do?" he pants as I shake his extended hand, "I teach Political Theory". I smile at him politely, and bend slightly so to match his height. I'm grateful when he recovers his breath.

"Might I ask why you were running?" I ask curiously as I'm led through another passageway and past a rather large green. Professor Caney dismisses the notion that he was running with a wave of his hand.

"Why, that was merely a sprint" he argues, "When I received the message that you were here, I walked to the wrong college and ended up joining a conga of second years". This chap certainly had a lot of life in him. I almost wished my own tutors had been so enthusiastic.

"Come through here and make yourself comfortable" Professor Caney says, gesturing towards the open door of a rather dusty-looking office. It broke my bookish heart to see so many books lying around. Academics could be strange types.

"Someone died in here once, you know" the professor snorts, "Only joking, that was just in Inspector Morse". I give as big a smile as I can and pretend to titter away at what was clearly a poor stab at a joke. I take a seat and wait for Caney to take his own.

"Now, these are very exciting times we live in, I'm sure you'll agree" he begins, clapping his hands together loudly. I arch an eyebrow. I'm not sure I _will_ agree. Not so long as I held fucking _Transport_.

"We're still acclimatising to the new regime" the professor continues. That I did agree with. Every now and then I would catch myself walking in the direction of the government benches rather than the opposition ones. For most of the time, I would be fine, the memory of our defeat remained with me.

"Naturally, there is much to discuss, especially now that Labour are heading off into new realms" Caney says, tapping his fingers on his desk as though impatient with myself, "Let's hope Ed doesn't stumble upon Narnia any time soon". His nose crinkles up as he chuckles away at the joke that escaped entirely. He was jolly, at least.

"I'd be quite grateful for a magic wardrobe" I sigh, "I'd sooner befriend Mr Tumnus than Ed Balls."

"If only this were a paper on the faults of Ed Balls" I ponder aloud, "Finally, a work to rival War and Peace". Professor Caney watches me almost fascinatedly. I thought it of little surprise that myself and the shadow chancellor didn't get along. I had never had much time for shows of superficial friendship.

"Perhaps a challenge for another time" the professor muses, "Ms Nelson, I hope you appreciate just how interested we are in the movements of the left in this country. I do feel that, with the consultation of yourself and others, we could produce something truly riveting". I didn't consider myself a soldier of the left, but I had been privy to much of its thinking.

"Oh, goodness! I am so very hopeful about this" Professor Caney grins. I silently try to work out what kind of drugs he was on. I'd gladly ask for the number of his dealer if it left me any where near as cheerful.

"I do hope your appearance here means you're willing to help us" the professor says, expression freezing momentarily.

"I'd be most happy to be involved" I reassure him. And so the slightly crazed grin returns. "Marvellous" he mumbles to himself.

"Oh yes, before we work out dates and so forth" he adds, snapping his fingers in the air as though suddenly remembering something, "Much of your work will be alongside our Sociology professor. He takes a keen interest in the movements of the left, so I thought it only fair to involve him". I nod.

"A Labour man?" I ask cheekily. Professsor Caney ponders quietly for a moment, before jerking his head. "Well, yes" he says, "But not, well, your Labour". _Ah_. So long as this professor wasn't another John McDonnell, I was sure we'd get along splendidly.

A knock on the office door catches my attention. "Ah, speak of the devil" Caney chuckles away to himself, "Come in, my good fellow, and meet your new associate". I turn my eyes towards the open door and feel myself freeze in my seat. The man entering the room reacts in a similar way.

"Professor Nelson joined us last year" Professor Caney goes on, as I manage to get to my feet and offer my hand, "He may be young, but he's really rather good". There is a small level of hostility in the other Nelsons eyes, a look I was sadly familiar with. It did hurt, to be so disliked by my own kin, but siblings would be siblings.

"Hello, Ian" I offer a small smile, "It's good to see you". My younger brother nods curtly and gives my hand a weak shake. "Oh, you know each other?" Caney asks, "That should remove any air of awkwardness". _Or exacerbate it_.

"We're related" Ian says, almost begrudgingly. Even sharing the same blood was too much for him. What I'd done to warrant this level of hostility, I did not know.

Professor Caney releases an elongated 'oh' and studies both of our faces in turn, as though searching for a likeness.

"Gosh, a family project" he says brightly, "Perhaps I ought to bow out completely and leave you to it". Both Ian and I look to him sharply. We call out in unison.

" _No_."

* * *

Prime Minister's Questions dawdles on in the usual childish fashion. Up my cousin would jump, bulbous face tinting pink, amusing his backbenchers with another of his pathetic jokes. 

Despite the feeble nature of David's quips, he did have a knack for cutting through into the minds of the less confident members of the house. Some were still adjusting to their new positions, and the prime minister knew exactly how to play them.

"How do you think he did this time?" Sadiq whispers to me, nodding quietly towards Ed. David continued to babble on  at the dispatch box. "Well" I reply, "He's right to point out the flaws in the government's economic policy". Sadiq snorts.

"Osborne didn't look too happy" he says, nodding towards the space that George occupied on the front bench, "Then again, when does he ever look happy". George had managed a chuckle at David's jokes, but gave little more than that. He was paler, except around his eyes where he carried dark circles.

"Government takes its toll" I sigh. He reminded me of myself when I began at Defence. Younger than my predecessors, and tasked with deeply troubling situations. It was a very familiar burden.

"Any complaints this week, Liz?" Diane Abbott whispers from my left. I should have known it was a mistake to sit next to her. "None I'd be foolish enough to share with you" I answer, "Though I must say, taking this seat was a low point". Abbott 

"Do you mean this seat, or Henley" Abbott smirks. I simply roll my eyes, not caring too much whether or not the cameras dotted about the Commons picked it up or not.

"IAN LAVERY" Bercow bellows. I tilt my head back slightly to look at the member in question and wait for the hubbub of the Commons to die down. "Thank you, Mr Speaker" the heavy Northerner says, "Can I ask the Prime Minister why he hasn't sacked his NHS advisor, David Britnell". Sadiq raises an eyebrow.

"David Britnell?" he ponders quietly, "The only Britnell involved in the NHS I've ever heard of is-".

"Mark" I finish, both amusement and dread kicking in, "Oh, _shit_ ". I glance over to the government benches. Already David's eyes were lit up. By the shaking of his chest I can tell he's fighting the urge to laugh. He'd caught on to the mistake of Mr Lavery quicker than I had.

"His adviser said that the NHS would be shown no mercy, and that it's perfect for private profit" the man continues, digging himself deeper with each word, "And that we should turn the health service into an insurance-based provider, and not a state one". He sits down again, amidst muttering from colleagues of 'disgraceful'. David, concealing his delight as best he could, gets to his feet.

"I'm grateful to the Honourable Gentleman for giving me the chance to clear this up, as when I read about Mr Britnell being my advisor, I was slightly puzzled" the prime minister says, "I've never heard of this person in my life, and he's not my advisor. _But_ -". I almost laugh myself. It was to be so embarrassing a blip that it was almost comical.

"I did a little bit of research, and it turns out he _was_ an advisor to the last government" David grins. I sense colleagues behind me sinking lower into their seats as the government benches explode with laughter.

"Oh don't worry" my cousin beams proudly, "There's plenty more. _Mark_ Britnell helped to develop Labour's NHS plan in 2000, which increased the role of the private sector. And whilst the Leader of the Opposition sat in the cabinet, he served as Labour's Director General for Commissioning in the NHS". The Conservatives lap it up, whilst we can only bare it with superficial smiles.

"So, whilst I don't know him" my cousin concludes, irritatingly successful once more, "I suspect members opposite know him rather well". Government ministers wave their order papers in the air and stamp their feet. Some point up towards where Lavery sits and cackle. No doubt the Chief Whip was already preparing to bollock the man.

"Oh dear" Sadiq sighs. I rub my temple and begin to laugh despite myself. It was in moments like this that I really wished I could strangle my party.

"What were you saying about complaints, Diane?."

* * *

"Drowning your sorrows?". I hadn't expected to be ambushed by Heseltine at the bar. I was surprised to see him up and about so late, given his age. "I haven't any sorrows" I lie. From the corner of my eye I see him perch down on the stool beside me.

"Apart from your lack of enthusiasm in Transport and the humiliation of your party" Heseltine assesses, "As well as your ongoing concerns about Miliband's capability as a leader". I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Are you a Peer, or a psychologist?" I grumble, gesturing towards the bartender for another drink. Heseltine offers me a sympathetic smile. I wanted to assume that he was mocking me, but to my horror I found nothing but sincerity in his tired eyes. "You look tired" he goes on.

"Heavens, now you've turned into a Daily Mail journalist" I quip. I feel someone brush against the back of my stool, and turn around sharply. I glance about the vicinity curiously, before glancing down and realising that all I had felt was my coat sliding from its safe spot on the back of the stool.

"I know you've no reason to want to speak to me" Heseltine sighs, "But I do know what it is to grapple with my party leader". I narrow my eyes at him. I remembered the downfall of Thatcher with the upmost clarity. From my room at Oxford I had watched as the man before me publicly announced his intention to challenge a leader most considered in destructible.

"Some how I don't think questioning Ed is quite as bold as questioning Margaret Thatcher" I joke. Even I would have to think twice before denying her even a cup of tea.

"So you do doubt him?" Heseltine asks. I take the fresh glass of whisky offered to me almost as soon as the bartender begins to extend his arm. "What are you trying to pull me into?" I question impatiently. Heseltine blinks at me.

"What are you afraid of being pulled into?" he asks. I take a sip of my drink and give my temple a gentle rub. There always seemed to be a dull ache at the back of my skull these days. My poor moods made me wish for the golden days of the 90s all the more.

"It's difficult" I concede, "I love Ed, and I care about him very much, but I also care about my party. I hate saying these things aloud, because it always feels like a betrayal of sorts. Indeed, I'm perfectly comfortable voicing the odd concern, but I daren't cast any real doubt on him because, well, because he's my _friend_ ". It was a mess of a statement, but it was true.

"What will you do?" Heseltine asks quietly. I give another heavy sigh and rest my head in my hands for a few moments. What _would_ I do? I would try and gently nudge Ed, but my demotion in shadow cabinet told me that I wouldn't be in a position to.

I sit up again and brush the hair from my eyes. From the corner of my eye I spot a familiar face. Twice today I had accidentally found myself in the same room as my estranged brother. There he sat, some distance away, huddled over a pint of bitter with his allies of the left. Unsurprisingly, McDonnell is among them.

"Do excuse me, Michael" I excuse myself, wishing to make my exit before I was noticed, "Have a good evening". Heseltine nods to me politely and settles down at the bar, no doubt ready to enjoy a few drinks of his own after listening to me for so long.

I was too polite to ignore Ian should our eyes meet. But after this morning's events, and the company he kept, made me want to keep my eyes to the ground, and escape the bar as soon as possible without looking too desperate.

"Nelson" someone says, stopping me in my tracks. I turn, to find myself face to face with a most unwelcome figure. I should have guessed he would be lurking given my brother's presence.

"You left your coat behind" Rob Campion says, offering the article in question to me. Almost hesitantly, I take it and manage a small smile. "Thank you" I say. Campion nods curtly, before disappearing into the bar again and taking his place by my brother's side.

 _Even in my safe place, my troubles pursued_.

"Good evening, Liz" Gordon greets me, appearing from a nearby corridor most unexpectedly, "Fancy a drink?". At any other moment, I might be tempted to say yes. In this one, however, I only want to escape.

"Are you alright, Liz?" Gordon asks, eyes narrowing. I found myself becoming increasingly overwhelmed. _You're being silly, Elizabeth_. I attempt to shake off my anxiety, but still it builds. _Get a grip_.

"I think I must be tired" I answer, mind clouding, "Do forgive me". Gordon remains still, watching me closely. I did not know exactly what had brought this episode on, but I wished to be rid of it as soon as possible. _You're being ridiculous_.

"Liz?" Gordon calls, distantly this time. He stands but feet away, yet it feels like miles. And then, before I know it, the halls of the Commons begin to spin, and to the ground I crash.

And in the darkness that soon follows, I finally find peace. No Labour Party, no parliament, no Campions. And no _fucking Transport_.


	75. Local Disputes.

**15th April, 2010.**

**Beckley, Oxfordshire.**

"For goodness sake, I'm not _dying_ ". I lie back on an uncomfortably ornate couch, wrapped up tightly in the Nelson family stronghold. My mother, recently arrived from Scotland, dabs at my forehead with a damp cloth. "Do relax, dear" she warns, "You must be gentle on your nerves". I grumble under my breath and ease myself back, accepting my fate.

"I wish I'd been summoned earlier" Mother says, glancing over to the living room door to check that Nevin wasn't lurking, "I'd no idea your brother was in such a state". As per, he had retreated to his study, only reappearing for the odd conversation. "He seems to have improved, as odd as it may seem" I tell her.

"You seem to be glued to that phone, Emily" I comment, looking towards the space that my young daughter occupies at the other end of the room. It hadn't entrusted her with too grand a phone, but it was still more than most her age had. She wasn't a boarder, as her brother was, but I still liked to keep in close contact with her when I was away.

"I'm sure she's only talking to her friends" my own mother intervenes, "She's far too young for _boys_ ". Indeed she was. She regularly developed crushes on the actors she saw on television, but she seemed to hold most of her male peers at school with contempt. I could hardly blame her.

"Leo Blair might be an exception though" Catherine chimes cheekily. I give my niece a wink and look to my now blushing daughter with a small smirk. "I do hope he isn't the one you spend to much time talking to" I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. Leo Blair was a good lad, and he was awfully fond of Emily, but I would have to ward him off for now.

"I'd like to say you were the same" my mother sighs ruminatively, "But I don't think you realised what a boy was until you were about sixteen. They were nuisances to you". I chuckle at my former self.

"They still are" I remark. With the exception of Diane Abbott, I think it was fair to say that the vast majority of the stress I felt at work was because of my male colleagues. It's said that women are the most talkative of the two sexes, but I had a great deal of evidence to the contrary.

"You did make an exception, of course" Mother muses, finally taking her damp cloth away from my forehead and allowing me to sit upright. I reach up to my neck to make sure my locket still hangs around it.

"Liz?" Nevin pokes his weary head around the door of the living room, "Could I borrow you for a moment?". Before my mother can seize me again, I dash from the room and follow my brother into his study.

My _episode_ had passed, and I felt well again. Apart from the odd headache, I was perfectly fine. Stress, I was told, had brought it on. That, and my failure to properly manage my condition. Cardiomyopathy deserved much more attention that I credited it with. I would have to be more careful in future.

"Heavens, I didn't expect to be hosting a constituency surgery" I remark, eyes turning to the slightly ragged figure standing in the middle of the study floor. The man offers his hand, and a toothy grin, to me.

"Lovely to see you, Ms Nelson, ever so sorry to be bargin' in like this" Jack Crown, a local tenant, greets, "It's just I've got a bit of of a problem". Nevin retreats to his chair and sits with his arms folded, expression grave.

"The council have started putting a fence around one of Jack's fields" my brother explains. Jack scratches the back of his head and sighs heavily. "I've tried to tell 'em to piss off, but they just carry on" he says.

"Constructive, I'm sure" I raise an eyebrow, "Still, I'm your MP, so I'll be more than happy to-."

"We can go down to the council now" Nevin interjects. I frown at him, and attempt to argue to the contrary. "I'm not sure we-."

"I own this land now, and Jack is one of our tenants" Nevin says, authority clear in his voice, "I say we get the matter sorted now. Father would have done it". His voice trails off slightly as the sentence falls from his mouth. I see him clench his fists by his sides, as though angry at himself for faltering at the mere mention of our late father.

"They might have taken the family business away, but they won't take our old friend Mr Crown here away" Nevin states boldly, clapping the elderly farmer on the shoulder, "Let's go".

I can hardly argue. And so, before my mother can apprehend me with another damp cloth, I make my move, and to the council we went.

* * *

I feel most inadequate as I stand beside my brother in the offices of the local council. On he raves, lecturing the officials before him on the laws of property, all with an energy that had been notably absent in him for almost twelve months straight.

"You can't construct on land that doesn't belong to you". His point was a simple one, but it failed to resonate with the stern-faced folk he stood before.

"Mr Crown can submit a formal complaint" a bearded fellow speaks up, "I realise you're a _baronet_ , sir, but-". Nevin twitches slightly. He appeared physically repulsed when he was referred to a ' _Sir_ '. Another reason, perhaps, why he wished for our father to return.

"I'm complaining now, you daft bastard" Jack blurts. I sigh lightly, whilst the bearded man simply shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the sound of the office door swinging open.

In a flurry of paper, in falls a young woman. She was fairly plump, with dark skin and thick black locks. I thought her charming in appearance, if rather awkward. " _Claire_ " the bearded man spits, "How many times?". The young woman picks herself up, cheeks tinting red, and bows her head.

"Sorry, sir, I tripped. The door can't have been shut properly" she says shyly. The bearded man tuts.

"Gather those papers and get out" he snaps. I shoot him a disapproving look, before offering this Claire character a warm smile. She bends down to gather her fallen pieces together whilst Jack continues to lay into the 'daft bastards' of the council.

"Here" my brother offers, kneeling down to aid the poor girl in her task, "I don't envy you". She looks puzzled.

"What do you mean?" she asks. Nevin has to seize her by the wrist when she starts to stumble again. I glance down at her shoes. I could certainly sympathise if the heels she wore were new. "I'm not sure I'd want to work for that prick" Nevin mutters to her. She struggles to conceal her smile.

She continues to smile as Nevin turns his attention once more to the bearded man. Slightly hunched over, she retreats from the office, comparatively silent to her entrance.

As the door clicks shut, a pale yellow sheet of paper catches my eye on the carpet. I pick it up, and stick my head around the door of the office, hoping to see Claire somewhere near. I didn't fancy searching each and every office in the building. Faced with an empty corridor, I slip out of the bearded man's office and begin my search.

I knew it was wrong of me to do so, but I allowed curiosity to get the better of me. MP or not, I had no right to the document I held, yet I took a peak any way. And as I read it, I realise just how incredibly unlucky I am. Unhappy coincidence seemed to plague my life. For I was being confronted by _that_ surname once again. _Campion_.

The document took the form of an email, sent from the undeniably sweet Julie Campion, whom I had met in the troubling time of 2004, to the unfortunate Claire. I also notice a less sweet Campion, Angela. The Angela who, I am convinced, broke into my office on that day of 2010 and stole things from me. Instinctively, I reach up to roll the locket around my neck between my fingers, just grateful to have it near to me.

"Ms Nelson!" the pitiful Claire cries, almost colliding with me as she had done the door earlier, "I am sorry". I jump, but laugh my initial panic off. I extent the document to her and smile kindly.

"You needn't worry" I say. I certainly hoped she hadn't seen me reading the paper. My relationship with the Campion clan was turbulent enough as it is.

"I do hope that prat in there isn't always so rude" I sigh, giving the young woman a sympathetic smile, "Still, difficult men are things we must put up with, I suppose". Claire nods wearily.

"Your brother doesn't seem so difficult" she muses. _If only you knew him better_.

"He has his moments" I admit. Claire smiles once more, before disappearing into a nearby room.

The sound of a door opening behind me catches my attention, and I turn to see my brother, notably calm, entering the corridor with Jack Crown in tow. "They'll start taking the fence down tomorrow" Nevin states. He didn't look as though he'd achieved any great victory.

"Heavens, that was quick" I exclaim, "Clearly you have an aptitude for this. You should sit on the council yourself". The faintest hints of a smile are apparent on my brother's lips, but there is little warmth elsewhere in his expression.

And then his face hardens entirely. Even as Jack pats him on the back and mumbles words of thanks, his eyes are drawn elsewhere, a lack of emotion replaced by an excess of it. And it isn't positive emotions I see flickering in his eyes now. He stares at something he _hates_ , and whatever it is stands  _right behind me_.

Within seconds of turning around, I'm pulling the figure my brother glares at into an adjacent room. Gently I take her by the wrist, ensuring that the room I entered was entirely empty. "Are you going to hurt me?" a snooty Scottish voice sneers.

"I've better things to waste my energy on" I respond sharply, shutting the door firmly behind me. I take a deep breath and look up to meet the eyes of Eva Smith, the other plague of my life. I would have ignored her, had I not been remembered what Charles had told me earlier in the month. _She had some how managed to get her hands on my locket._

"I think it rather typical of my life" I sigh, "That you of all people should come across something stolen from me by a Campion". Smith narrows her eyes.

"I suppose I should have expected Osborne to gossip after he took the locket from me" she says, with the false air of innocence, "Then again, I was under the impression he was keen on avoiding you these days". What a slimy individual she was. She was about as endearing as Piers Morgan, and that was really saying something. My poor brother must have been in quite the state of desperation when he turned to her for companionship.

"Did you get the Campion girl to steal those things from my office?" I ask bitterly, "You wouldn't do it simply to spite me, would you? So what's the real motive? What did you get from it all?". Eva smirks. She was still young and pretty, but her hair was streaked with grey, and around her eyes grew small wrinkles. She seemed less immaculate than was usually the case, as though she'd somewhat lost her edge.

"I didn't get her to do any thing" Eva says, amused, "It was those notes of hers that she was most keen on retrieving. The locket was just a nice little bonus for myself". She eyes it from where she stands. The very thought of it being around _her_ neck insults me.

"I only wish I'd known the significance of it before Osborne took it away again" Eva continues, "The  _photo_ however". I feel my muscles tighten suddenly. A slight chill passes through me, but I fight with all my might to appear unaffected.

"Where is it?" I snap. Eva withdraws her purse from her handbag and then, shortly afterwards, the photo. It's returned to me in a worse state than I remember, but I'm happy all the same to have it in my hand again. I forget whom I stand with as I gaze at the happy young face of my then-small son.

"I've no use for it any more" Eva says as I slip the photo into my pocket, adamant that it would never leave me again. Before I can ask her what she means, she drawls on. "An odd thing to hide away, a photo" she ponders aloud, striding about the room with an irritating level of confidence, "Having had the time to look at it, and I see why you might not want it shared. A pity".

As I had been when confronted by Angela Campion, I felt _fear_. Fear and a feeling of vulnerability. For all my talk of strength and steel, there were a select few in the world who could wriggle their way through the cracks and _get to me_. I wasn't invincible, and Eva Smith knew it.

"I think you ought to leave" I grumble. Eva grins.

"I'm afraid I can't quite yet. I'm applying for housing" she informs me, "I don't wander about these places for fun". I manage a grin of my own. It was reassuring to know that she faced problems of her own.

"Isn't council housing rather below the bar for you?" I mock.

"Well, given that your charming brother is no longer supporting me, I've little choice" Eva says with a shrug. I'd expect her to be slightly more bothered than that. She was a most shallow creature. I couldn't see her adapting to working class life particularly well, even if she had grown up in similar spaces as a child.

"It serves you right" I state, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd rather not waste another minute on you". The smile returns to Eva's increasingly aged complexion.

"Do enjoy tomorrow's papers" she calls as I make for the door.

_"You might read something you like"._


	76. A Gaffe.

**16th April, 2011.**

**University of Birmingham.**

I should have expected it, in all honesty. I had escaped my country abode in Oxfordshire early in the morning, and retreated indoors upon by arrival in Birmingam a few hours later. This gave me a great deal of cover. In my safe space, albeit with Ed Balls as a partner, I was sheltered from the hoardes that began to collect outside.

It wasn't unusual for universities to summon politicians such as myself. The party press office loved a good 'meet the young people' moment. I'd have been happy to take their questions alone, yet, naturally, it was requested that I bring a _colleague_ along.

"Any one would think there had been some kind of disaster" Balls comments, peering through the blinds of the room we occupy and staring down at the journalists waiting below. _Do enjoy tomorrow's papers_ , Smith had said. I hadn't read them, but I had a sneaking suspicion I was supposed to.

"No sarcastic comment about me being the disaster?" Balls asks, turning away from the window with a perplexed expression, "Are you ill?". I tut at him before turning my eyes back to the spot on the wall they had been fixed upon for a good ten minutes. I was taking a moment to _think_. What exactly had I done? The sensible thing, you might think, would be to check the morning'a news on my phone, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it.

"You're not going to have another fainting spell are you?" Balls remarks. I fix him with a cool stare. I certainly felt slightly queasy, but I was determined to resist the feeling. "I'd feel better if you stopped talking" I mutter. A student pops his head around the door of the room and grins at each of us in turnx

"We're ready for you, if you'd like to follow me" he says. Balls and I do as instructed. A few paces down the corridor, I begin to realise we're heading towards the main entrance of the building. "Are we going outside?" I question, "Past the press?". The student stops and considers the thought.

"Haven't done something terrible have you, Liz?" Balls mocks, "I always knew going out with that editor chap would be a mistake". I shoot him another icy glare and prepare myself. I didn't have to speak to any of them, but they'd speak, they'd harangue. They'd shout questions on a matter I wasn't even familiar with. "Evidently" I gulp.

"There were more" the student muses, continuing our journey to the entrance of the building, "I think some of them went elsewhere to gage reaction. Imagine how bad it'd be if Lord Heseltine was here". He snorts and flicks a wispy strand of hair from his eyes. I narrow my eyes at him initially, but then I begin to realise.

Do enjoy tomorrow's papers. You might read something you like.

"Ms Nelson! Ms Nelson!". I'm surrounded the moment I step foot outside. Balls manages to slide away to the side of the hoarde and escape all attention. I, on the other hand, was swarmed. "What do you make of this morning's revelations in The Telegraph?" came one voice, whilst another shouted "Will you be resigning, Ms Nelson?".

_"What are you trying to pull me into?"_

_"What are you afraid of being pulled into?"_

I hadn't thought that particular conversation would come back to haunt me. Indeed, I could recall far more incriminating ones throughout my career, yet this one, given the perception many already had of me as a bitter Blairite, seemed particularly bad.

In steps the hero I was neither expecting nor keen on. Balls, having initially opted for an easy retreat, nudges his way through the crowd and creates a passage for me to escape through. "All right, all right" he says, "Sod off, go on". Our student guide simply watches on, bemused.

"Bloody hell" Balls pants, once we're safe indoors again, "What did you _do_?". I give a heavy sigh and glance again in the direction of the press. I felt too queasy to argue with them. _Revelations_. _Telegraph_. For the first time in my career, it seemed, I had been subject to a _leak_.

"Happens to the best of us" I could imagine Charles saying. But they were never helpful. In my own selfish way I hoped the press were giving Heseltine just as much attention as they had dealt me, but I quickly realised how unrealistic that was.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket and check for any missed calls. I excepted the number of Ed's office to flash up on the screen any moment now. I hadn't said anything cruel in my conversation with Heseltine the other night, nor had I in any way challenged Ed.

But I wasn't encouraging.

I was being honest. I wasn't rude, but polite. I was preparing my defence in time for my inevitable bollocking from the top of the party. Whether it would be enough, I did not know.

All that I was sure of was this:  _I'm never having a drink with Heseltine ever again_.

* * *

Andy thought me paranoid. By mid-day, without a single word from the leader's office, he and I spoke quietly on the phone. I had been wary, given the number of people on my train. Only one person had approached me at that point, and that was only to ask for a photograph.

"It was Campion" I had told him.

"The girl who robbed your office?" he had queried, perhaps preoccupied by his work at Westminster. "No" I corrected, "Not the girl, Rob. The one who stood against me in 2005. He's conveniently dating my brother now". Andy gave a small 'oh' and fell quiet again.

"He was there in the bar that night. He could have recorded that conversation" I continued, confident in my theory, "I bet he encouraged the girl to write those threats, too. And steal from my office". Andy took another few moments and processed what I had suggested.

"So, it's all one big plot against you" he had said, "Did Campion persuade William Lewis to shag you too?". I cussed him for his coarseness and continued my point.

"The Telegraph is another matter" I had replied, "The point is, Campion is clearly out to get me". Andy simply sighed.

"Will this not make things awkward with your brother?" he asked.

And that was where I found myself now, in a dimly-lit room at 5 o'clock in the evening, sat opposite that exact same brother. The room was quiet, with only Professor Caney's humming keeping it from silence.

It was good to distract myself with a bit of writing. All afternoon I had been waiting, nervously, for that supposedly inevitable phone call from Ed. _Shadow Cabinet Member Casts Doubt on Leader_. _Bitter Nelson sticks the Boot In_. I had already predicted most of tomorrow's headlines.

"Ah, do excuse me for a moment" Caney says, pushing his chair back, "Just need to go for a tinkle". He grins wildly at me, before dashing from the office.

"How have you been?" I ask my brother, bold enough to attempt conversation, "Is Rob settling in well?". Ian doesn't even look up from his work.

"Yes, he is. Though he's rather stressed at the moment" he responds shortly, "What, with his sister still in need of a job". His anger-filled eyes meet mine, but only fleetingly.

"I'm sorry she's having difficulties" I reason, "But I shan't apologise for seeing to her dismissal. She _stole_ things from me". Ian makes no response, but instead scrawls on his paper before him with increased speed.

"No one will hire her after what happened" he seethes, "We've been helping her to find a home in this area, but her own mother saw fit to email the council and warn them against helping her". So that's what the email was about. I hadn't had sufficient time to read the email I'd picked up in the parish council offices. I'd been too keen on returning it to Claire as to avoid any appearance of _nosing_.

"I know Julie Campion. She's lovely" I reply, "Why would she treat her own daughter that way?". I felt odd to feel sympathy for the woman who had stolen from me.

"Because she's scared of her" Ian tells me bluntly. I arch an eyebrow.

"Scared for her valuables, more like" I poke. Ian sets his pen down hard and gives me a dismissive glance. "Liz, please" he snaps, "Angela is, well, _disturbed_ ". I small smile I sport fades. I thought the girl had only glared at me the way she did due to hatred. _Perhaps there were some insecurities I had overlooked_.

"Rob told me that she changed after William died in Iraq" my brother adds. It had been so many years since I first met the family in my constituency surgery, then their rather fed up Defence Secretary. I still felt guilty about not helping them. All they had wanted was news of their son. I had been able to find that news, but I never relayed it to them. _And then William was killed_.

I suppose I'd have to carry that with me for the rest of my life.

"She's _unwell_ , Liz. Her parents feel threatened by her" Ian tells me solemnly, "She only seems to listen to Rob". I, of course, felt pity for the girl, but it was that last detail that I focused most on. _She only seems to listen to Rob_.

It was clear that Rob didn't like me. But did he dislike me _so_ much that he would be willing to exploit the influence he holds over his sister, _who happened to work in the same building as me_ , to try and get at me?

 _Listen to yourself_. I did sound paranoid. I check the date on my phone. 16th April. It would be many months before I could go on holiday. I had speeches to make and questions to ask. _And referendums to campaign in_. For now, my only break would have to be a quick cigarette outside.

I cross Professor Caney as I leave the room. "Don't worry if you hear a bit of noise from next door" he smiles, "Professor Harley is having a leaving do. The undergrads don't usually start their piss-ups until about ten". He pats me on the shoulder and strides past, whilsting as he went.

Now I was really keen to find out which drug he was on. I could certainly do with a few grams over the next few weeks.

I fumble about in my coat pocket for my lighter as I walk along the corridor. Sure enough, begin to hear loud conversation and the clinking of glasses. I also begin to hear raised voices. Not raised in merriment, but in argument. I begin to work out where this argument is taking place. _Just before my exit to the courtyard, conveniently_.

I could stroll past two warring academics. The years I'd spent studying at Oxford had accustomed me to such things. My professors had very often fought with one another. I'd always considered it good entertainment.

"You didn't have to come here" I hear one muffled voice say, notably calmer that it's counterpart, "I just thought you'd need cheering up".

"Anything to get me out of that bloody building" growls a woman, "It's you who's supposed to be cooped up in there, not me". I slow my pace. If this was an academics argument, it was certainly an unusual one. The last thing I wanted to do was interrupt a _domestic_.

"It's not Guantanamo" the male voice protests, "You are actually entitled to go outside". I hear the woman scoff.

"Yes, with a platoon of policemen behind me" she argues, "How peaceful". There is a moment of silence, and for that moment I think the argument has ended. But no sooner had I begun to move again, the man spoke.

"Well I'm sorry you feel that way" he speaks, voice quieter now. Another pause. As interesting as I'm sure this argument was, _I really needed that cigarette_. The two would be too caught up in their own affairs to notice me, surely? I take a leap and continue along my path towards the courtyard.

"Are we going in, or not?" the woman bites as I quietly walk along. "You go on" the man answers, "I'll be there in a moment". _Perhaps I could offer him a cigarette_.

Finally, I turn into the room that had housed the domestic. Thankfully, it's over by the time I get there. All I see of the angry woman is a flash of short blonde hair, and the back of a slim figure. She was dressed smartly, fitting in well with the guests of Professor Harley's party.

I eye the courtyard through the nearby archway, only turning my eyes from it to glance up at the slightly hunched figure of the man she had been arguing with. I almost slid across the floorboards. "George?" I exclaim, "What ever could bring you here?". George snaps out of his gloom and gives me a weak smile.

"Professor Harley is leaving" he says, "He used to teach me, so I thought I'd come along and wish him well". The dark circles around his eyes grew ever darker, and now in his hair I can see tiny flecks of grey.

"Is everything okay?" I ask politely, "I heard shouting". It wouldn't be courteous to ask any more than that. It was wrong of me to listen as I did, anyway.

"Oh, absolutely" George sighs, "I don't think Frances is particularly enjoying Downing Street". It almost pains me to see such sadness in his eyes. They were often to bright and full of mischief. Now all I saw was tiredness and misery.

"It's a difficult transition" I offer, "She'll come around, I'm sure". I knew Samantha Cameron had struggled initially. David hadn't been quite so rapped by her, but he had told me of their initial struggle. Now Sam seemed to take Downing Street life in her stride. For the sake of George, I hoped Frances would do the same.

"I certainly hope so" George says. Something beneath my chin suddenly catches his attention. I glance down, and realise I'm still wearing the locket. "It was you who found it, wasn't it?" I remember, "Charles told me". George nods. He looks as though he's about to reach out for it, but quickly shifts his arm back by his side.

"I'm surprised you still wear it" he remarks. A little light grows in his eyes. If the locket distracted him from his argument, then I'd indulge him. "It's a fine piece of jewellery" I say, rubbing the locket between my fingers fondly.

"So I should hope" George smiles, "It cost me a fortune". It was odd, to hear an acknowledgment of the past out loud. Odd, but also strangely comforting. A pleasant silence descends over the room, and I'm glad to see George smiling again. I can't help but feel annoyed when Frances emerges from the ever-loud halls of Professor Harley.

"Are you coming?" she asks impatiently. I was confident Frances wasn't always like this. Everyone experienced bouts of anger, and the pressures placed upon her were enough to leave any one irritable.

George, clearly of renewed spirit, manages to give her a smile. Even if that small light had now vanished from his eyes, he could spend his evening in a lighter mood than he had begun it. I reach into my pocket for one final search of my lighter. I find it with little effort.

I stand in the archway, relieved to finally feel fresh air on my cheeks. I'm about to light my cigarette when I hear George call out to me once more. "I meant to ask" he says, "How is your boy?". The cigarette I hold slips from my fingers and rolls across the cold stone of the courtyard. He must have caught me by surprise.

"Alex? He's very well" I answer, reaching down to retrieve my lost cigarette, "Why do you ask?". George reacts as though I spat the question at him.

"I'm glad to hear it" he says, ignoring it regardless, "Well, good night, Liz". And with that, he disappears into the hectic confines of Professor Harley's suite. Despite the noise, and the knowledge that a room containing my estranged brother awaited my return, I find my own spirits beginning to flood back. So much of my life made me unhappy, and the fact that I had today been the subject of a _leak_ did nothing to alter that.

But there was still hope. There was still the odd thing I could smile about.

And so, as I glance down at the cigarette that had tried to escape me only moments ago, I sigh. And, unused, back into my pocket my lighter goes.


	77. Successes and Failures.

**6th May, 2011.**

**Westminster, London.**

Almost a month had passed since the leak, and I still remained at fucking Transport. I was lucky, it was said, to have retained any job at all. Ed had never confronted me about my conversation with Michael Heseltine. I'd received only a light scolding over the telephone. He had, initially, behaved somewhat awkwardly in my presence, but relations soon returned to normal. I was still barred from his top team, however. The 'bitter Blairite' would have to suffer on the sidelines for a while longer.

Amidst my obvious blip with the leak, there were also one or two notable successes. First came the publication of that all important Oxford paper.

It had been completed much quicker than expected, with Professor Caney and myself particularly applying ourselves towards the end. A paper examining the left in British politics. It may not have seemed riveting to some, but the academic reception it enjoyed as really rather overwhelming. Ian hadn't turned up to celebrate the paper's publication.

Back into the shadows he had retreated, with his beloved Rob Campion at his side. I felt no sympathy for the latter. Whatever plot he had orchestrated to bring me down had failed. The leak, whilst embarrassing, hadn't ended my career, as I was sure he was hoping. As for his poor sister, I hadn't a clue. Where ever she was, I only hoped she was free from the grasp of her brother.

" _I'm going to stand in next year's council elections_ " my brother had announced soon afterwards. Something had inspired him in the parish council offices that day, and I was glad.

"Do you think he'll win?" Alex muses to me from the couch. I emerge from the kitchen bearing two fresh cups of tea. "Henley?" I ask, setting our mugs down on the coffee table, "Almost definitely". Alex shifts himself so to allow me room to sit.

"Labour aren't a _complete_ disaster in the area" my son reasons, "You've done rather well". I sometimes forgot that Henley had been a solid Tory safe seat before I'd arrived. 1992 seemed like an age away. Part of me wanted to go back.

"Then again, many don't seem to regard you as proper Labour" Alex adds. I arch an inquisitive eyebrow at him. "I thought I told you to avoid John McDonnell" I joke. Alex grins boyishly and reaches for his tea.

"It was Councillor Dugmore who told me that" he says. I almost choke on my own drink.

"Councillor Dugmore? He chairs the local Conservative Association" I point out, "What on earth are you doing talking to him?". Alex freezes mid-gulp and flushes a light shade of pink. Before I can question him further, he clears his throat and turns his eyes towards the flickering television.

"What's going on?" he asks, nodding to the screen on which Downton Abbey plays. _I suppose it's like a documentary for you_ , I could hear Jonathan mock. It was he who had got me interested in the programme. I could certainly sympathise with Mr Carson's insistence on the correct cutlery.

"Matthew is now engaged to Lavinia Swire" I explain, keen to fill him in, "They were just discussing their wedding". Alex eyes the scenes unfolding before him with curiosity. He gives a small snort when he sees the downcast expression of Lady Mary. "She doesn't look best pleased" he points out.

"That's because she's in love with him" I inform my son, watching as the character in question looks on at her beloved longingly, "They were together, but events drove them apart. And now Matthew has found Lavinia, and Mary is engaged to a journalist chap named Richard Carlisle". It felt good to discuss the programme with another soul. My interest in it prompted laughter from my colleagues. Of course, the usual 'documentary' jokes would then be bandied about.

"Does she not love this journalist chap?" Alex asks, investment growing. I scoff. Elements of Carlisle were charming, but generally he seemed quite the brute. I sympathised with Lady Mary in turning to him, of course.

"Certainly not, but he knows a rather dangerous secret about her, a secret he would no doubt reveal should they break up" I go on. Alex ponders on all that he's heard thus far. I got the feeling he and I would be watching the programme together much more often from now on.

"They're rather handsome" Alex says, nodding once more to the television screen. "Lady Sybil?" I ask, "She is very handsome, you're quite right". Alex shakes his head at me and gives a small laugh.

"I meant the other one" he says.

"Branson?" I query, amused, "He's a socialist, you know". Alex looks upon the characer with soft eyes, but fakes an expression of disappointment. "Well I'm not sure I'm so keen now" he jokes.

I feel quite sad when the ending credits begin to roll. Alex had remained with me for the rest of the programme, clearly a convert. Whether or not his interest was solely in Tom Branson, I did not know. "Mother?" my son asks abruptly.

"Yes?" I answer.

"Why were you watching Downton Abbey?" he ponders, "It's referendum night". I glance at my watch. 2:45am. _It was now referendum morning_. Alex, on another break from Eton, had a great deal more energy than his younger sister, who slept soundly in her bed.

"I've been getting all the latest results in" I reassure my son, waving my phone in his direction, "I haven't forgotten". Alex looks almost puzzled.

"Forgive me, but you don't seem to be taking this particularly seriously" he says. As President of the NoToAV campaign, I felt it only responsible to be optimistic. Besides, I recognised the successes of my own side, and the failures of its rival.

"It doesn't look as though we'll be binning First Past the Post at any point in the near future" I smile, scrolling through the latest figures on my phone. London seemed to be the only area of the country that was in any way receptive to the idea of voting reform. It felt good to be on the winning side once again.

"Will you be in a happier mood now?" Alex asks. I frown at him.

"What do you mean by that?."

"Well so often these days you're, well, _irritable_ " my son tells me honestly, "I understand if your work is getting to you". I give the boy'a hand squeeze and give him a warm smile.

"I'm sorry, darling, there are just one or two things that seem to weigh on my mind" I say, "I'll try and be a bit brighter from now on". I kiss his forehead and hold him close. He was nearing his sixteenth birthday by now, but I still thought of his as my darling little Alex. He was still very much the bright-eyed, happy little creature _that_ photo showed him to be.

I didn't think it right for me to grumble when my phone rings just a few moments later. I'm pleased to see that it's Nevin who calls me at this bizarre hour. No doubt he was as pleased as i to see how the referendum was panning out.

"Good morning" I greet, "Have you been watching the coverage?".

"No. No I haven't". Nevin's voice is shallow and empty, as though he had fallen into his dark mood once again. "What is it?" I ask, concerned, "What's wrong?". I wait as Nevin takes a deep breath. Whatever if was, it had knocked the wind from him. Already my mind was going into overdrive. _Please don't let it be Mother_ , I think, _please_.

"I've just spoken to the police" my brother breathes.

"The _police_?" I repeat, alarming Alex in the process.

"She's dead, Liz" Nevin blurts, and I can tell he's about to cry, "She's dead". _For the love of God, please don't let it be Mother_.

"Who is?" I ask calmly, "Nevin, please". I can almost hear him gulp. He takes another few seconds to try and compose himself, but with little success. And then he said a name that had, many times previously, often filled me with dread.

"Eva Smith."


	78. Champagne.

**25th January, 2012.**

**Fenton House, London.**

I'd first taken the long descent down the winding stairs of Fenton House at the age of sixteen. I had been most intimidated then by the cold eyes of the upper-class sharks below. I'd even worried that the bannister I so clung on to would give way at any moment and leave me to tumble down the remaining steps, a complete fool. I saw the same upper-class sharks now, but they had lost the coldness from their eyes.

Instead of having my mother by my side, I had my son, taller by the day, and Peter. I had asked Gordon to join us, but he had said that a room full of drunken rich English people wouldn't make his evening very enjoyable. Peter seemed keen, but in his usual calm, discreet way.

"Mother, I think you're being watched" Alex whispers to me, nodding to the plump, balding figure waiting at the foot of the stairs. I smile at the man and extend my hand towards him as I grow near.

"Heavens, it's you, Elizabeth" the Duke of Westminster greets, giving my outstretched hand a peck, "I thought you were an angel".

"That's funny. I could have sworn I saw a handsome prince waiting for me just now" I joke, "Oh wait, I wasn't mistaken after all". Gerald chuckles in his usual way, before turning his eyes to my son.

"This is Alex, I presume?" He asks, offering his own hand, "It's wonderful to meet you at last". Alex smiles shyly and bows his head. It was expected by many that Eton boys grow up on dreadfully excessive parties like this, but in reality most were quite reclusive. Their intellect may be meticulously polished, but their social skills weren't.

"Will your brother not be joining us?" The Duke asks, looking around for any sign of Nevin. I shake my head and sigh. "I'm afraid he's busy" I tell him.

That was a slight lie. Slight, in that he was busy, just not for reasons of work as Gerald no doubt presumed.

Eva Smith was dead. Suicide, it was decided. They'd found her, overdosed, in a council home she had only just been granted. Nevin had loathed her towards the end, but took no pleasure in her death. Nor did I, for that matter. I hadn't liked her, but I would never have wished death upon her.

Nevin's time was now predominately spent with his daughter, now twelve, who struggled to understand what exactly had happened to her mother. I sometimes envied children for their ignorance.

"You look very relaxed, Liz" Peter whispers by my side, "Are you not guarding yourself in case someone tries to tape you again?". I tut at him.

"You can make light of it" I say, "I could have lost my job over that leak". Peter appears unaffected. I often got the impression he wished I was some kind of backbench rebel. He hadn't been overly scathing in regards to Ed's leadership, but he didn't seem particularly supportive.

"But you didn't" Peter points out, "You were lightly reprimanded. Yet it's still made you _shy_ ". I roll my eyes. Even a miserable Gordon Brown wouldn't be such bothersome company.

"I've never been called _shy_ before" I laugh, "I'm just being a bit more reserved in my criticism". I hadn't exactly blasted Ed in the leaked conversation I had with Heseltine last year, but I was still keen on being cautious. I didn't want to give the press any more reasons to label me a dissenter.

"I'm going to look for some champagne" Peter decides suddenly, "Excuse me, for a moment". And so off he stalks. Some guests shy away from him as he passes, intimidated by the infamous Prince of Darkness. Others pursue him, fascinated to be in his presence.

I hear someone clear their throat loudly behind me. Alex and I turn, and find ourselves facing a short, plump man with sharp features and thinning hair. Light wrinkles lined his eyes, but his face had a great amount of warmth about it. Elements of him reminded me of my father.

"Forgive me, Ms Nelson" he says, "But I felt I should introduce myself. My name is Noah Freidman. I manage the Nelson family business now". I arch an eyebrow at the man.

"Except it's not a family business any more. It's shareholders made sure of that" I grumble. I wasn't sure if I wanted to devote too much time to this fellow. He occupied a position that rightly belonged to my brother.

"Forgive me, Ms Nelson" Freidman says, almost sadly, "I had no part in the removal of your brother. In fact, I argued against the move". I clear my throat and offer the man a smile this time. _Start again_.

"Then you must forgive me for my hostility, Mr Freidman" I say, extending my hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you". Freidman shakes it most enthusiastically. I begin to wonder what my father would have made of him.

"Might I introduce my son, Alex" I add. Alex politely greets the man and shakes his hand. It seemed reasonable to accustom him to networking. I had been thrown into situations such as this from an early age. No doubt Alex wished he could retreat back into the comfort of his home, as I had always done.

"A pleasure to meet you, young man" Freidman beams, "Say, I have a boy about your age". He looks my son, now nearing his seventeenth birthday and growing fast, up and down, before glancing about the space around him. After a few seconds of hurried searching, Freidman finds his target.

"Isaac!" he calls. A tall and lanky boy, dressed in a dinner jacket far too big for him, casually approaches. On his head sits a pile of thick black curls, much tighter than those of Alex, and his bright blue eyes are set in his thin face at just the right position. I guess him to be exactly the same age as my son, if not slightly younger.

"My son, Isaac Freidman" his proud father formally introduces. I smile at the young man and offer him my hand too. He seems somewhat shy, but not in any way cold. Clearly Mr Freidman and I had similar ideas when it came to adjusting our children to the ways of society.

"Alex Nelson" my son greets, extending his own hand. It was terribly cliche, but I couldn't help but notice the way Alex seemed to be lost in the boy's eyes, as though entirely captivated by what lay before him. Isaac, in his own reserved way, seemed to return his interest.

"Why don't you two talk about whatever it is young people talk of these days" Mr Freidman invites. I nod in agreement. And as I watch them walk away together I can't help but feel I've been here before. _There was certainly something very familiar about the situation_.

"I used to live in Henley" Freidman says, strolling alongside me through the spacious halls of Fenton House, "I only ever voted Labour once, and I'm pleased to say that was for you". I thought it a shame I hadn't converted him for life.

"I'm grateful, Mr Freidman" I tell him, "Might I try and convince you to change your perspective of the party? We need all the votes we can get at this point". Freidman chuckles.

"Alas, I am sworn to another party" he says, "And, please, call me _Noah_ ". I make a mental note of that and glance about the faces of my fellow guests. Actors, journalists, even figures from the military joined the festivities. What we were gathered here to celebrate none of us knew.

"I should warn you. I understand William Lewis is lurking about here tonight" Noah says, "I've always been more of a Guardian man anyway, but Lewis really is quite the leech". I can't help but snort. Elements of William were hugely charming, and I hadn't always been irritable in his company, but he was, at heart, as all editors were- a _leech_.

"Why warn me?" I ask, looking about for him curiously, "I think I can handle him".

"So the spark has gone out after all" Noah comments, "And I thought the tabloids were only gossiping". I arch an eyebrow at him.

"You're a very curious man" I remark, not sure whether it was a characteristic I was particularly keen on. I had only known this Freidman fellow for a few moments, but he seemed trustworthy. He was inoffensive and calm. And he was one of the few businessmen in the vicinity who wasn't roaring drunk.

"Might you excuse me for a moment?" Noah turns to me, "I need to use the facilities". He gives me a polite nod before scuttling way through the crowds assembling in the main hall. In the distance somewhere I could hear the Duke of Westminster cackling, probably drunk off his head. I decide to take my chances and escape to an abandoned sideroom.

Despite its emptiness, it's a smart room, with finely panelled walls, neatly cut carpet and a series of fine paintings hanging on all four walls. A grand piano stands proud in the corner of the room, and before a large but empty fireplace sits a tired couch. _I recognised it_.

The keys of the piano are familiar to my fingers. The tips of each brush against ivory, and for several quiet moments I search the confines of my brain for a fond memory of some sort. Moonlight Sonata. That is the song that begins to play in my head.

I glance over to the fireplace. Many guests, similar to those just outside now, had stood there, _watching_ me. Some, waiting for me to miss a note, others almost captivated by the movements of my hands along both flats and sharps. It was at their request that I had played, and when I had finished the third movement I rose from the stool to applause.

Some how I now find myself playing the same movement. It had been far too long since I had last played the piano, which seemed odd given the role it had played in my childhood. My tutor would at least have been proud to see that, after all this time, I did not drop a single note.

"I'd forgotten how well you played" I hear that voice say from behind me. For months on end, it was though he avoided me, and now, as had been the case in years past, he seemed to appear everywhere. What a strange and elusive creature that George Osborne was.

"You must remember that its bad form to interpret a pianist mid-movement" I warn, continuing what remained of the piece regardless. "Then I shall stay a silent observer" he says, perching himself on the back of the couch.

He remains there, silent as promised, for a number of minutes. As I near the end of my spotaneous performance, he moves over to the window. In one hand he holds a glass of half-empty champagne, but he uses the other to push aside the curtain blocking his view of the garden.

Well, I say garden. When I had first come to Fenton House as a sixteen year old, there had been a proper garden, a rarity in London. Now it consisted only of a few buses and a couple of rows of fine flowers. The 'green space' sported an old bench, which looked onto the rather unappetising sight of the city's largest finance buildings.

"Bravo" George commends when I play my final note. I would have to make do with only his applause on this particular occasion. I shake my slightly aching fingers and join him at the window, curious to see what it was that had drawn him so.

"Is that Alex?" I ask, peering through the glass, "What on earth is he doing outside on a night like this". Through the darkness that befalls the 'garden' I can see my son sitting down on the old bench, with his new friend Isaac by his side. They seemed to say very little, instead gazing upwards towards the sky.

"Who is that he's sat with?" George asks.

"Isaac Freidman" I inform him, "He's the son of the man currently managing Nelson Ltd. in my brother's place". George grins.

"Try not to sound too bitter" he mocks. I roll my eyes at him. I would have felt bitter, had I not thought highly of Freidman. I didn't see the point of disliking a man who was so obviously innocent. "On the contrary" I correct my old friend, "I think him rather lovely". George nods in understanding, and turns his eyes to the window again. He gazes most fondly at something out in the 'garden', but what I could not tell.

"He's growing terribly quickly, your boy" George comments, "I suppose he'll be off to university soon". I watch as my son sits contentedly with the young Freidman. It was reassuring to know that he had at least made one new friend.

"That will come next year" I say, "He's not leaving me just yet". Eton had forced me to get used to not seeing my son for extended periods of time. It only made the time I did spend with him more precious. It was my sincere hope that he chose Oxford when the time came. He wouldn't have to leave his home county, that way. He could visit myself and Emily, and all would be well.

"Your brother's ex-wife is dead, isn't she?" George asks suddenly, "As awful as it might, just seeing that locket reminded me". I take hold of the locket between my fingers instinctively, well remembering the anger I had felt when I learned it had hung around _her_ neck. _Don't think ill of the dead, Elizabeth. There was no point in bitterness now_.

"I never asked" I recall, "How is it you retrieved it from her? I seem to remember that you never told Charles". I had got the impression that Eva Smith hadn't been overly fond of George, and given her nature I thought it unlikely that she would simply give the locket over.

"That doesn't matter now" George answers, expression hardening slightly, "What matters is that it remains with its rightful owner". I clutch the locket tight in my fist, before allowing it to settle on my chest. If George didn't want to discuss it any further, I would not press him. Heavens, perhaps I was _mellowing_ in my old age.

"And _still_ you wear it" George says, almost amused. It aimed to incorporate it into every outfit, usually finding a way for it to work with the rest of my clothes. I thought it looked particularly fitting with the dark green dress I now wore.

"Well, it's as I say" I speak, "It's a-"

"Fine piece of jewellery?" George finishes, the faintest hints of a smirk playing on his lips. I narrow my eyes at him. _Don't look at me like that_.

"Champagne, Liz?" Peter calls from the doorway. I snap out of whatever bubble I had fallen into and turn to him sharply. There he stands, as casual as could be, bearing two full glasses of the drink. He gives George a respectful nod.

"Thank you, Peter" I say stiffly, walking over to join my friend. I turn and give George a small smile before I'm led from the room. He would at least be left in peace to enjoy the sight of whatever so interested him in the green space outside.

"I thought you were being _wary_ " Peter cautions, linking arms with me, "William Lewis is lurking about here, you know". I glance about for any sign of my former beau. "I don't know what you mean" I frown, "I don't have to guard myself in every conversation. You were scolding me for being to reserved earlier". Peter raises his empty hand in defence.

"I don't object to what you say" he soothes, " _Only who you say it to_ ". I shake my head.

"After all these years, I still struggle to understand you sometimes" I laugh weakly. I take a sip of champagne, enjoying the feeling of it trickling down my throat. I hadn't realised quite how thirsty I was. It didn't help that I was beginning to find the room far too hot.

"Your eyes betray you" Peter sighs, clearly nothing up whatsoever. _What a riddle that man was_. It wasn't difficult to understand why dear John Smith had warned me about Peter all those years ago.

"That, and other things" my colleagues sighs, sharp eyes drifting off elsewhere. I look for what he fixed on, only to notice the young Isaac Freidman emerging from the outdoors. And from behind him steps my son. There appeared to be no awkwardness between the two, and from afar it looks as though they've been friends for decades.

Isaac smiled at Alex, and Alex smiled at Isaac. But in Alex's expression especially I see a great fondness growing.

His eyes betrayed him too.


	79. Notes.

**2nd February, 2012.**

**The House of Commons, London.**

How unfortunate I was to be sitting in the Commons at this moment. Transport Questions, that great _highlight_ of my week, had sadly been scheduled straight after Treasury Questions. Treasury Questions should have finished at least ten minutes ago, and yet I still find Ed Balls droning on at the dispatch box.

In his own muddled way, he was right. _"Can the Chief Secretary not see how the cuts the government propose will effect front line services?"_. Apparently not. Danny Alexander gets to his feet and mumbles a response. For several seconds I try to assess which Muppet he most resembled.

"Shit" Balls mutters from my side, frantically sifting through the papers he rests on his lap. I tut. "What have you forgotten?" I ask.

"I can't find the debt figures" my colleague replies quietly. I roll my eyes at him and sigh softly. There were moments when I wished I had been allowed onto the Treasury team again. Not only would I then be taken away from _fucking_ Transport, I could keep an eye on Balls.

"What percentage of GDP was it?" Balls asks hurriedly, scratching his chin as Danny Alexander closes his remarks, "60%?"

"67.1%" I correct. Balls snaps his fingers in the air and rises up to the dispatch box again just in time. He hesistates before he uses the figure. I was convinced he'd get it wrong, but to his credit he remembered the number right. I felt as though I was his tutor, or worse, his _minder_.

"Pssst" someone whispers from the bench behind me. I feel someone tap my shoulder in an irritating fashion. "Can I help you?" I ask the young MP responsible. Somewhat red-faced, they pass a small piece of Commons printed paper to me. On it is a hastily scribbled message that I can only just make out.

'Meet me in the tea room after please'. I frown at the MP. "Who is this from?" I ask. The MP jerks their head in the direction of another Labour colleague sat some distance along the bench. I could have groaned.

Hastily, I take up my own pen and write a short reply on the other side of the paper. 'Why?'. I wanted a reason before I spent time with that man.

On again the paper travels along the bench. I turn my eyes towards the government as it's read, keen to look focused. Balls had done his bit for now, but there were still issues that needed to be addressed by junior ministers.

'Just see me, please' comes the reply, messily written underneath my own words, shortly afterwards. I give a heavy sigh and scrunch the paper up in my fist. I suppose I could give the man five minutes.

But that would have to be after the wonder that was Transport Questions.

* * *

John McDonnell had never been my greatest fan. Nor had I ever been overly fond of him. 'Witch' he had once called me, amongst many other colourful phrases. In return, I may or may not have called him a 'sanctimonious Marxist dickhead' in one particularly heated PLP meeting many years ago. We were the picture of civility now, however.

"Tea?" McDonnell offers, raising the pot placed before us. I manage a smile and nod. I watch as he pours the hot liquid into my cup with only a slight shake of his hand. "Do you not want to pour that on me instead" I quip.

"I know we haven't always been friendly" McDonnell says, to which I snort, "But I come to you in peace".

"So the lynching is scheduled for another day?" I add jokingly. McDonnell sighs.

"Lizbeth, please" he says, nearing frustration, "This is important". Lizbeth. How I disliked that nickname. You either called me Liz, which was a name reserved predominantly for those I liked, or Elizabeth. Never 'Lizbeth'.

"A pride parade is being organised in the city very soon" McDonnell explains, "I was due to act as the Party's special guest at their stall, but, well, something else has come up". Perhaps that was the day when my lynching was to take place, then.

"Oh dear" I reply, "I suppose you're asking me if I'll stand in for you?". I had no objections. But why McDonnell came to me, I did not know.

"I'd be grateful" the man says, attempting a smile, "It's just, well, I hear on the grapevine that your son is, well-". I narrow my eyes. My son was my son. I hated the idea of my colleagues in parliament whispering about such personal things.

"Mr McDonnell, I don't think that concerns you" I correct, as politely as possible, "I'll do the parade. I know you don't particularly like me, but you can at least credit me with some decency". I drink my tea and get to my feet. McDonnell thanks me and follows suit. Just as we leave the tea room, I have a thought.

"What were you going to say about my son just now?" I ask, curious. McDonnell jerks his head. _What a clue_.

"Well, I heard he was, well, what I mean to say is-" he stumbles his way through his sentence. Not that it mattered. I knew precisely what it was he wanted to say.

"Mr McDonnell, my son may come home one day and introduce to me a boyfriend. He may come home one day and introduce me to a girlfriend" I tell him, "I don't care which if is. If my son is happy, I'm happy". I was rather haunted by images of my brother Ian as a teenager, gaunt and depressed, hiding his sexuality from a demon that never existed. He never did tell our father. I doubt it would have caused much friction, but still he kept it to himself. I had been keen to create an environment in my own household that didn't necessitate any need for 'comings out'.

"You're a good mother" McDonnell says, and for once he is being genuine, "I'm sorry if I've offended you". _Heavens, now an apology_.

"For once, you haven't" I giggle, "I'm sorry for being short with you". What on Earth was happening? We had said more civil words in the last few seconds than we had in thirteen years.

"Well, goodbye, Liz" McDonnell says, shaking my hand warmly, "And thanks again for agreeing to the parade. I'll get my office to send you the details."

"It's quite alright" I smile, "Good day to you, John". _John_. The Elizabeth of a decade ago shivers at the thought of calling him John. I doubted this bout of civility between our sides would lead to a friendship of sorts. Then again, I'd somehow managed to kindle such a thing with Michael Heseltine.

Speaking of whom...

"Hello" he greets, aged eyes kind, "Relax, I don't think we're being spied on". I roll my eyes at him. Last year's leak was a source of amusement for him.

"Though, there is a young journalist chap lurking about in the lobby" Heseltine recalls, "I'm sure he mentioned your name". _Great_. I had no interviews scheduled for today. This journalist chap would have to come another day.

"At least he hasn't tried to reach me by passing notes" I sigh, watching as McDonnell departs to continue his business for the day. Heseltine arches an eyebrow at me, before suddenly turning his attention to something stuffed into his pocket.

"That reminds me" he says, pulling out a slip of paper, "I was told to pass this to you".

"You're _fucking_ with me" I hear myself say. There is a moment of silence as I stare at the note Heseltine holds. Apparently conversation was not good enough these days. Heseltine gives a soft chuckle after I take the paper from him.

"You _were_ fucking with me" I groan, "I do hate you sometimes". Even I have to laugh slightly. For an aging Tory Peer, he certainty had a sense of humour. "No more notes, my dear" Heseltine reassures me.

"Policy ideas?" I ask cheekily, waving the paper he had handed to me. "On my person?" he replies, "Alas, I am no longer privy to policy discussions". I smooth the paper out again and offer it to him.

"It is fine paper, however" he says, pushing my hand away, "Keep it". I frown.

"I have enough paper in my own office" I say, somewhat perplexed by the offer, "I've no need for it". I think I could do without a random slip of paper. Heseltine clearly had it on his person for a reason.

"No, I insist" Heseltine replies. My brows furrow ever more, but I concede and slip the paper into my pocket. What an odd mood he was in today.

"Heavens, I must be off" he says abruptly, "I've a debate to attend in a few minutes". Bemused, I can only watch him slowly plod away towards the Lords. Before he disappears from sight, he turns.

"Would you object to dinner later?" he proposes. I smile despite myself.

"No, I don't think I would" I respond, "Thoigh it'll have to be before eight. I must take care of Spock". Heseltine, and indeed a number of other members in the nearby area, looks at me in confusion.

"I'm sorry?" Heseltine asks.

"Spock. My son's cat" I clear up. Heseltine nods before continuing his steady journey towards the chamber. Still one or two members look at me. Many cats had bizarre names. I hadn't even named mine.

* * *

"A young journalist chap in the lobby?" Jonathan queries as I settle down in my office, "That'll be Owen Jones". I raise an eyebrow from where I sit.

"Who?" I ask.

"Owen Jones" Jonathan repeats, "He's certainly up-and-coming. A Guardian man. Left-wing". I trawl through my memories to try and match a face to the name. Upon further thought I thought I did know that name.

"A decent chap?" I wonder aloud. Jonathan nods and slips his hands into his pockets casually. "I'd say so" he says, "He's fond of recording interviews and putting them on YouTube". Again my eyebrow springs up.

"YouTube?". Jonathan bows his head, somewhat defeated. Like Twitter, this YouTube novelty would have to be something I became accustomed to.

"Its a site on which people can watch videos" Jonathan explains, visibly wincing, "Jones has a YouTube channel. It's his main platform". No doubt Emily had mentioned it to me before. I would turn forty years old this year, but there were times when I felt like a seventh year old.

"Perhaps we ought to arrange an interview" I suggest, idly tapping my pen on my desk, "By the way, look out for correspondence from John McDonnell's office. I've agree to stand in for him in Labour's efforts for that upcomig pride parade". Jonathan snaps his fingers in the air, as though suddenly remembering something vitally important.

"I heard about that from Ed's office" he says, "They were hoping that Ed would take the leading role. It could play well for them". I wasn't concerned with what played well in the press. My interest in the parade was fuelled by my interest in equality. It irked me to think of Ed, or at least his staff, putting votes before that.

"I'm sure we can both attend" I reason, "The more the merrier, surely". Jonathan looked sceptical.

"I think they're worried that you'll overshadow him" he says. I snort into my tea.

"Overshadow Ed? He's the Leader of the Labour Party" I chuckle, "Don't he silly". Even if I had been at the forefront of British politics for many years, I was in no way more of a headline than Ed. Me attending a pride parade was little new. The Leader of the Opposition standing a stand against inequality would surely be more of a catch.

"Well, there was a rather interesting poll conducted by The Times yesterday that asked participants to name which member of the Shadow Cabinet they would most like to see in charge" Jonathan tells me, "In charge of the party that is". I listen attentively.

"Do you know who topped the poll?" Jonathan continues.

"Eddie Izzard?" I joke, already predicting his answer with a small amount of dread. Jonathan simply looks at me with knowing eyes.

"So, let me get this straight" I say, irritation building, "Ed's office think I'm overshadowing my leader because of an unimportant poll they saw in a newspaper?". Jonathan blinks. How trivial politics was becoming.

"I did mention the absurdity of it" he sighs, "But they simply mentioned the leak". That damned leak. I couldn't imagine how both the press and the leadership would have reacted had I said something genuinely incriminating.

" _Sod_ them. I'm doing it anyway" I decide, "Now, about this Jones chap. I think we should give him a shot". Jonathan nods and withdraws his phone from his pocket. Away he taps, stunning me slightly with his speed. I was improving with the use of my own phone, now an updated model, but I wasn't particularly quick.

"Have you a date in mind?" my aide pauses. I tap the pen on my desk in a steady rhythm. There was little point in trying to memorise my diary.

"Could you be so kind as to retrieve my diary from my coat?" I request politely, pointing towards the chair over which my coat had been slung. Jonathan takes a small black book from one of the pockets and turns back towards me. As he does so, a small slip of paper drifts from its pages.

"Oh" Jonathan says, noticing it at his feet. He bends down and picks it up. Perhaps instinctively, he opens the slip up and goes to hand it to me. Before he does so, however, he freezes.

"What is it?" I ask concernedly. His face seemed to drain of colour. With an almost nauseous expression, he hands the paper to me. It was fine paper, as Heseltine had said, with a fine watermark at the very bottom. The writing upon it, however, was notably messy. The words were just as bad.

I'd never known where those threatening notes I had received in 2010 had disappeared to. Unlike my locket and my photograph, the notes were stolen objects never returned. With this particular scrap of fine paper, however, it seemed I would soon be able to start a new collection.

Again I read the words, and I almost laugh, quite unsure of how to react.

_'I'm back. And you are still a murderer.'_


	80. Ms Holmes.

**4th February, 2012.**

**The House of Commons, London.**

I hadn't left London at any point in the past couple of days. It was too keen on finding Heseltine. I had inquired about his whereabouts, and was told he had not left the city. He owned no mobile phone, and his office was empty. _I needed to find him_.

"Will you _please_ sit down?" Jonathan begs, "And don't pour yourself another glass of whisky". I shoot him an irritated glance and continue to pace around the office. I'd been much the same since I'd read that note. _Just when I thought I would be left alone_.

"Am I going to have to cancel that interview?" I ponder, turning back to my aide as I suddenly recall the details of my diary.

"Certainly not" Jonathan insists, "It might take your mind off things. Besides, Jones sounded most enthusiastic on the phone". I had greater concerns than the happiness of a Guardian journalist, but an arrangement was an arrangement.

 _You're a politician, Elizabeth, you should be able to keep yourself together_. I didn't think myself in any danger. It wasn't the threat that caused my pacing. I was concerned about the whereabouts of the Campion girl, and whether she'd be held responsible for her actions this time.

"Will the police find her, do you think?" I ask. Jonathan sighs lightly and sinks into a chair in the corner of the office.

"They're not conducting any great manhunt. They'll find her when they find her" he says, not helping my nerves one bit, "I wouldn't get your hopes up, anyway". I frown at him.

"Whatever do you mean?" I ask.

"She's mentally unstable" Jonathan replied bluntly, "Even if they do find that she's responsible, they might not act in the way you hope". I consider that. When my brother had first told me of the Campion girl's poor mental health, I had felt very sorry for her. I still felt sorry for her. Yet I could not let this incident go on as I had done before.

"I should have mentioned the other one. I'm sure Rob is involved somewhere" I think aloud, pulling at my locket subconsciously. Jonathan looks somewhat exasperated.

"Rob? Is that the one your brother is dating?" he queries, "I get quite lost in this story". I couldn't blame him. I sometimes wished I had never come across the Campions. The surname irritated me now.

A light knock on my office door catches my attention. Jonathan jumps up to open it, whilst I straighten my skirt and give the appearance of someone not blighted by worry. In steps a fresh-faced young man, _very_ young if his appearance was representative of his age, dressed in casual clothing and sporting a bright smile on his face. Behind him a see a much older man bearing a camera on his shoulder. The younger man brings with him only a backpack, more suited perhaps to a walker than a journalist, and his mobile phone.

"Hello, Ms Nelson" he steps forward, offering his hand, "I'm Owen. It's lovely to meet you at last". I notice his accent has a very pleasant Northern twang.

"Please, call me Liz" I smile, "The pleasure is all mine". I could suppress my anxieties for ten minutes or so. At least this Owen chap didn't seem to be a wet blanket.

"It's a lovely day, so I thought it might be nice if we did the interview on the green outside the building" Jones suggests brightly. Jonathan and I exchange unsure looks. This would certainly be a very original interview.

"If that's where you'd like me to be" I agree, after seeing Jonathan give a nod, "Then why not".

* * *

It was indeed a lovely day. In some respects, at least. The sun shone, defying the weather of the month and giving us some well-desired warmth. Parliament Square, however, was particularly busy. Cars drove on nearby, and tourists dotted about the place, excitedly chatting away to each other about seemingly everything.

"Are you alright?" Jones asks as his cameraman makes final preparations, "You look a bit peaky". _I wonder why_. I had made an extra effort with my makeup this morning to try and look slightly less _dead_ , but clearly I had failed.

"I'm Scottish" I say, "I'm always peaky". Jones gives an amused smile and consults his phone, a familiar habit for him, for something. Whilst he taps away, I beckon Jonathan, who awkwardly stands on the grass verge twiddling his thumbs.

"Signal to me if you spot Heseltine" I instruct him. My aide gives a small chuckle.

"You're really quite mad sometimes" he laughs, "But alright, I'll _signal_ him". I felt absurd saying it, but I really was desperate to find my old rival. I wanted to know where exactly he had found the note, and why he had been so keen to give it to me. _A fine piece of paper_ , he had said. It didn't seem overly _fine_ to me.

"I know this is all rather silly" I whisper, "But I need to find him and ask about the note". Again, Jonathan laughs.

"Yes, Ms Holmes" he mocks. I arch an eyebrow at him.

"If you're my Watson, I'm done for" I poke. I was trying to imagine who would be my Mycroft. _And my Moriarty_.

"Are we ready to go?" Jones asks, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. Jonathan slinks away into the background, and I turn to face my interviewer. Jones signals to his cameraman and opens his mouth to speak.

Then, I _freeze_.

A particularly familiar figure lurks over Jones' shoulder, some distance away but not so far that I could not see his face. Along the pavement he plods, slightly bent over, but without a walking stick. Parliament is his destination, and I knew exactly which benches he would in a few short moments be finding himself on.

In the spirit of silliness, I do something very silly indeed. I sometimes forgot I would be forty this year. Not just because I disliked the idea of being so old, but also because forty year olds did not do things like that which I was about to do.

Jonathan spots him too. His eyes fix directly on me, and with an outstretched hand he seeks to stop my next very silly act. "Liz, don't-".

 _Too late_.

Defying the heels on my feet, I sprint off. I had always been short, but I had always been quick. Ballet as a young girl had strengthened my legs considerably, and years of wearing heels had made me nimble.

"Blimey" says one Welsh tourist I run by, "She looks our old Deputy PM". I had thought losing my position in government had been the low point in my career. In future I would consider this particular moment the lowest point of all.

I was running, in full view of the public, across Parliament Square in pursuit of an old man I had once considered an enemy.

"Michael!" I call, hoping he would hear me over the sound the traffic, "Michael!". _What the fuck are you doing_.

"Heavens" Heseltine claims, turning to see me dashing towards him, somewhat red-faced, "That was unexpected". I almost collide with him as I attempt to slow down. Several tourists turned to frown at me, but I had more important things to consider.

"Sorry" I pant, attempting to regain my breath so I could press him on the issue that had been bothering me all morning. Heseltine watches me, most bemused. Sprinting as I did had actually taken some of my stress away. Finally, an incentive to _exercise_.

"The slip of paper you gave me the other day" I begin, "Where did you get it?". Heseltine looks off into the distance, and from the concentrated look in his eye I can tell he is deep in thought.

"The note?" he asks.

"So you knew it was a note?" I splutter, chest still recovering, "Not a _fine piece of paper_ , as you put it?". _He must have known what was written on it_. Would he willingly hand a threat over to me? A decade ago, perhaps he might have done. But not now, surely.

"A young lady outside the station gave it to me" Heseltine recalls, "For you, she said it was, from George Osborne's office". I take a moment to process his words. _A young lady_. That was undoubtedly the Campion girl.

"George's office?" I repeat, "Why would his office send me a _threat_?". I begin to feel rather conscious of those around us. I wouldn't give the press another opportunity to listen into to our conversations. Gently, I lead Heseltine inside.

Thankfully, the corridor we find ourselves in is abandoned. Heseltine looks genuinely stunned. "A threat? I had no idea" he says, "I didn't read it". He clearly had more restrain than I did. My initial reaction to being handed any piece of paper would be to _read it_.

"Weren't you curious?" I press him.

"It's none of my business" Heseltine defends, "I presumed it to be a private memo, so I simply stuffed it into my pocket and walked along. I thought by telling you it was just a piece of paper, I would be sticking to the secret". I blink at him. _What secret?_

"The girl. What did she look like?". That's my next question. I'm wary of interrogating him, but I was bursting with questions. At least we were protected indoors. I felt rather ashamed to leave Jones stranded on the green, but I had to seize my chance.

"Blonde. Thin. _Gaunt_ " Heseltine describes. That sounded precisely like the Campion girl. _What was she doing in London?_ My brother had told me that she was attempting to find accommodation in Oxfordshire. I suddenly became very aware of my surroundings. For all I knew, she could have been one of the many tourists I had run past. She could be any one of the faces I passed on a daily basis in London. She could have been on any of the many seats on my train.

"What is going on?" Heseltine asks, understandably, "Is everything alright, Liz?". Where was she? I had thought that I could forget about her. I had never been overly concerned about her threats to me. She never gave me cause to believe that she would act on any of them. But to emerge in this way, out of sight, _panicked_ me.

"In all honesty" I begin, "I'm not entirely sure".

* * *

 

"You're shaking ever so much" Andy says, gently placing a fresh cup of tea in my hands, "Are you sure you're alright?". I sip the tea eagerly. Even if it did burn the insides of my mouth, I needed it.

"I'm perfectly fine" I insist, "I'm just rather worn out". Andy perches down on the seat before his desk and gently blows on his own tea. "I'm not surprised" he snorts, "Running across the green like that". Nearby tourists hadn't been the only ones to witness my bizarre moment of atheliticism. A number of colleagues had also seen me.

"That is the first and last time I'm running after Michael Heseltine" I confirm. Andy smiles, but soon hardens his expression. He sets his mug down on his desk and leans closer to me. "When do you expect to hear from the police?" he asks curiously.

"I wish I knew" I sigh, "I doubt it'll be soon". Andy glances down at his lap sadly.

"Do you think she'll send another threat?" he ponders. _I wouldn't be surprised_. The inbox of my office was checked regularly, not that the Campion girl would send her threats by post. By now, no doubt, most of the Commons knew of the threat sent to me, but not how it came to me. I worried for other friends and colleagues. It would be so easy of the Campion girl to use them as she used Heseltine.

"It'll all be alright" Andy reassures me, "And if you're in need of good news, take a look at our standing in the opinion polls". He pushes a copy of The Mirror across the desk towards me. Curious, I read part of an article featured on the front page. ' _Tory lead narrows'_. The party seemed to be ever-so-slightly creeping up behind the government. Many voters still remained sceptical of Ed, however.

"I wish Ed would allow you onto the PMQs team" Andy remarks, "You two were such good mates". I often wondered where we stood as friends these days. It depressed me considerably, given how close we once were. I hadn't faltered in my appreciation of him. It was something in him that had changed.

"We're still friends" I insist, "You know I love Ed. He's just keen on doing things his own way". A number of my older colleagues from the government days had told me that I would have been wise to resign from the fronbench after Ed was chosen as our leader. _You should have left whilst you could_ , they had said, _to save you the pain of watching your legacy die_. Such musical folk, our Labour veterans.

"I can't blame Ed, really" Andy concedes, "It's his party now. We need to change". But where do I fit in that change? I had by this point given up any hope of my party retaining its New Labour branding. The name, I had come to accept, was toxic. Incurable. That I also found depressing.

"Gordon isn't standing at the next election" Andy muses, "Nor is Jack". The old crowd were leaving, making way for whatever new heights awaited us. I was still younger than many of my colleagues in years, but politically I was an old woman by now. And old women, rather than be savoured for their wisdom, are turfed out by their younger counterparts.

"You won't leave, will you?" Andy asks, looking up to me suddenly, "Parliament I mean". I find I hesitate. Would I leave? It had crossed my mind. Who knew what the next few years held? If they anything as hectic as the last few, I suspected I might be standing down after all. I didn't want to tell Andy that.

"You'll just have to wait and see."


	81. Pride.

**20th February, 2012.**

**Central London.**

Owen Jones, it seemed, possessed a very good camera. Not only was its quality execellent, it was strong enough to pick up the redness of my cheeks and the tiny beads of sweat dotted about my forehead. _I'd looked worse_. A series of creepy comments beneath the video confirmed to me that my slight dishevelment that day didn't deter all. _More's the pity_.

"I'd say that was a fairly decent interview, actually" Helena, my ever spritely younger sister, remarks, swiping at her phone to close the video. Beneath a somewhat shaky tent we stand, biding our time whilst final preparations were made. I'd dropped the parade into conversation with her accidentally. As unfortunate as I was to have to put up with her for the day, I was grateful for her cooperation.

"T-shirts, ladies?" a party volunteer says, bringing forth a box full of red shirts. He lifts one up and shows us the design printed upon them. At the very bottom I see the red rose of the party, but plastered in the middle, in large white letters, reads the message 'NEVER KISSED A TORY'. _I_ could kiss whomever designed them.

"Oh, but they're wonderful" Helena gushes, taking it from the man and measuring it against her torso. In one smooth movement, she has removed her own top and replaced it with the red t-shirt. The volunteer offers me one. I give another chuckle at the words upon it, before politely declining. "I think I'll pass" I nod. 'NEVER KISSED A TORY'. I had always liked to pride myself on my honesty.

"Speaking of Tories" Helena says, peering through the drapes of the tent. I peer through the folds to see a group of blue-clad activists walking by wearing t-shirts with a slightly different message printed upon them. 'I KISSED A TORY AND I LIKED IT'. Even if I did pride myself on my honesty, I doubted I would at any point be asking for one.

"Let's go and say hello" I decide. This was a _pride parade_. We had gathered for a common cause. Why shouldn't I want to try and build bridges?

In the centre of the Conservative activists stands a plump woman with a round, pleasant face. There is a warmth in her that I do often found to be absent in her Westminster counterparts. North of the border, it seemed, the Conservatives were a softer breed. "Ruth!" I greet, "It's lovely to see you again".

"Likewise" the Tory grins, "Heavens, I didn't think we'd be marching together". Already activists of my party and hers begin to mingle. Given the torments of my own life at the present time, I found the sight tinge most welcome.

"It's good to work together for once" I say. Journalists begin to mix into the sea of red and blue. "Ms Nelson! Miss Davidson!" a Sun man cries, "Will you be standing together today?". I put my arm around Ruth's shoulders whilst the Scot gives another of her rather incredible laughs.

"Absolutely" I say proudly, "We have our differences, but we're entirely united on this". Ruth nods. I thought it a good thing that John McDonnell had been too busy to attend today. I doubted he would have made such an effort to cooperate with our nearest rivals.

"This isn't about party politics" the Tory says brightly, "This is about pushing for equality. And having fun". The activists around us cheer. A number of journalists squeeze through, eagerly taking photos. "Give 'er a kiss, Liz!" I hear one gruff reporter call. I roll my eyes. _I do it_. But I roll my eyes.

It would generate some interesting headlines amongst the right-wing press, but I couldn't say I was entirely bothered. "You're absolutely wicked, Liz" Helena giggles. I shrug and rejoin my Labour colleagues in the tent. "I'm turning forty this year" I say, "It's as good a time as any to kiss a woman". I couldn't wait to read the thoughts of The Daily Mail's columnists. And no doubt the Express was already penning an article about how I am secretly a lesbian.

"We're ready to join the parade now" a volunteer says to us. Helena straightens out her t-shirt and flips a lock of hair from her face. I now found it more tempting to find a 'I KISSED A TORY AND I LIKED IT' top. It was at least explainable to the press.

"Ready?" Helena asks, lifting a flap of the tent and allowing the cocktail of sounds from the parade to flood in. I nod, and out into a literal rainbow of colour we go.

* * *

It was remarkably easy to forget one's troubles whilst at an event as jolly as this. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits. It was most infectious. A number of people asked for photographs. Others wanted to simply thank me for being present. I wished I hadn't found myself here because of a clash in John McDonnell's diary, however.

"Oh dear, sorry" I exclaim as I accidentally elbow someone. So distracted from my problems was I that I had forgotten that there were others around me. "It's alright" a young boy says. At first glance, I don't recognise him. It takes me a moment or two to indentify him.

"Isaac Friedman?" I say, "Noah's son?". The boy nods, somewhat surprised that I had remembered his name. "Elizabeth Nelson" I introduce myself, "We met at-"

"Fenton House, yes" Isaac says, "It's lovely to see you here". On his cheek someone had painted a neat rainbow, and on his chest I spot a badge that reads ' _Some people are gay. Get over it_ '. I hadn't objected to him when I had first met him, but I found my feelings towards him now moved from indifference to approval.

"Might I ask where you're educated?" I query, realising it was an odd time to ask, "Shouldn't you be in a class of some sort?". Isaac replies to me in a whisper.

"I think this is more important than Physics lessons" he says, "Please don't tell my father". Noah seemed a good man, but even he, I suspected, wouldn't be too happy to hear his son had played truant. "I go to St. Paul's" Isaac tells me, "Not quite as grand as Eton, but it's good". He was well-spoken, but in no way plummy. There was normality to the boy that I found really quite refreshing.

"Not as good as Eton, my Alex would argue" I laugh. Isaac's eyes light up most suddenly.

"How is Alex?" he asks brightly. They had got along remarkably well at Fenton House. Looking at them from afar, it was easy to mistake them for two people who had been friends for decades.

"He's very well, thank you" I tell him, "I'm surprised he didn't give you his number after you met".

"He did, but he rarely replies to messages" Isaac laments, "I sometimes wonder if I'm being a nuisance". I give him a sympathetic look. Alex had never been as attached to his phone as Emily was. He'd rather spend his evenings with a good book than engaging in conversation.

"Nonsense" I say, "Alex likes you a great deal". Alex hadn't mentioned Isaac too me very much, but I had seen how quickly he had befriended the boy at Fenton House. It was quite a rare spectacle.

"He does?" Isaac asks hopefully. I thought it rather sweet.

"He does" I confirm. Isaac seems content with that. He hushes down for several minutes, before resuming his usual enthusiastic display of pride. I glance at him occasionally.

Here, he was full of life and confidence. Yet there was a steady look of reservation in his eye constantly, as though he was only pushing himself for the sake of a cause he cared about. Alex was never a very shy child. Quiet, yes, but never shy. As Captain of his house at Eton, he had earned the respect and admiration of many other pupils, but kept his circle of friends small. Isaac had seemed most relieved upon hearing that Alex definitely was his friend. I worried that he didn't have a circle of friends of his own.

"Is that Ed?" Helena asks, pointing towards a man in 'casual' clothing some distance away. I narrow my eyes and tip toe to see over the crowds of people before me. Sure enough, encompassed by advisers and staff, there stands Ed. He had attempted to dress down for the occasion, but wore clothes too dark to fit in. In Ed's usual way, he looked _awkward_.

"Are you going to go and say hello?" Helena suggests. I snort.

"I doubt that would be welcome" I say, "Supposedly they didn't want me here. They feared I would _overshadow_ them". Helena raises an eyebrow.

"I think they have grounds to fear that" she remarks. I sigh lightly.

"Well if Ed kisses David Cameron" I say, "We'll be equal".

* * *

I was getting rather good at predicting newspaper headlines. Almost twenty years in the business had made it a skill. As expected, I find the papers delivered to me the next morning all have the image of my _moment_ with Ruth Davidson printed on their front pages. The Express even boast of having a story about my secret ex-girlfriend whom I sought to keep silent.

 _'Naughty Nelson said she'd leave her husband for me. Then she betrayed me'_. Okay then. I cringed somewhat at the thought of this random woman calling me 'Naughty Nelson'. There must have been a better nickname than that.

I have a chuckle to myself at the breakfast table, only to have my quiet moment interrupted by the ringing of my mobile. The name of Ed's chief of staff flashes up on screen. Perhaps they had seen today's front pages too.

"Good morning" I greet, "What can I do for you at this fine hour?".

"Good morning, Ms Nelson" a young lady's voice speaks, "I trust you enjoyed yourself at the parade yesterday". I fight the urge to laugh.

"I think my happiness is well documented in today's papers" I comment. There is a pause on the other end.

"So I notice" the young lady replies stiffly, "Ms Nelson, we're most glad that you're _enthusiastic_ about the cause". I sense a ' _but_ ' coming.

"But the Leader of the Opposition feels that, well-" her voice trails off slightly, "Well-". _Called it._

"I overshadowed him?" I aid. Another pause.

"I'm not sure I would have put it like that" the young lady says, irritation apparent in her voice, "But yes, that is the essence of it". I tap my fingers on the table thoughtfully.

"Is it Ed himself who feels I've _outshined_ him?" I suggest, "Or is it just you?". Ed knew my character well by now. The old Ed I knew would have laughed at the image plastered on this morning's papers.

"Ms Nelson, the Leader of the Opposition attended the parade yesterday to represent the Labour cause" the young lady drones on, "We're keen to garner as much support as possible from the LGBT community-". I can't help but cut her off.

"So it was a vote-winning exercise?" I tut, "Pardon me, but that does not sound like the Ed I know". Ed cared about equality just as I did. Even if we were somewhat estranged these days, I would never suspect _him_ of doing something like this for political advantage. It was almost certainly down to his staff.

"You needn't be so cynical" the lady seethes, "We would simply be appreciative of you not-". She'd irritated me now. She was asking to be challenged.

"Doing as I wish?" I ask sarcastically.

"This is politics, Ms Nelson" the lady snaps, "And you are not the Leader of the Opposition any more. You cannot simply do _as you wish_ ".

"Don't lecture me on politics" I warn. I wasn't about to be told the rules of the game by a woman who had still been learning to talk when I had first started working hard for my party. "If Ed doesn't want to be overshadowed" I suggest, "Tell him to come out of his shell a little more. Don't just have him stand there waiting for others to approach him". He had looked rather awkward at the parade yesterday. He had always been awkward.

"Are you criticising Mr Miliband?" the young lady sounds almost offended. I was tempted to write Ed a letter and recommend that he find a new Chief of Staff.

"In part, yes" I say, "You needn't feel left out. I'm criticising you too". There is another pause on the other end, a longer one this time.

"It makes a change for you to voice your criticisms to a person's face" the lady woman bites, "Usually we have to wait for leaked recordings". I say 'bite'. It was more of a nibble from an old dog without teeth.

"Heavens, what an _original_ joke" I sigh.

"The point is this, Ms Nelson" the young woman returns to her subject, and I can sense her embarrassment from the other end, "We don't feel you're on board with us at the moment. I know a change in leadership is difficult for you, but-". I groan audibly.

"Good bye" I say simply. I end the call and set my mobile phone down again. What a dreadful woman. No doubt I would get into even more trouble for cutting her off like that, but I thought it best to end the conversation before I got too angry.

 _What did they want from me?_ I did my work at _fucking_ Transport, I attended all Shadow Cabinet meetings, I said nothing damning to the press, I helped with campaigns, I enthusiastically supported the causes dear to me. _I couldn't understand where I was going wrong_.

I'd known Ed longer than any of them. I'd helped him find a seat to stand for. If he was to be Prime Minister, he would have to overcome a number of obstacles. He appeared awkward, and not entirely at ease with his own skin. He often fumbled his questions at PMQs, leaving my irritating cousin to swoop in and devour him. He didn't focus enough on things such as the economy or immigration, perhaps out of fear that he would lose the support of the left.

Those were the simple, constructive crticisms I had to make. I didn't think or say any of it out of spite. The idea that I was bitter about my demotion was a silly one. True, I was not happy at _fucking_ Transport, but I got on with it.

"At least you trust me, eh?" I say to Spock as the cat leaps up onto the table. I hadn't been too keen initially, but I found him to be a most pleasant addition to the family now. Alex had attempted to hide him in his dorm last term, but had been rumbled by an older boy.

Spock slowly saunters across the table, accidentally stepping on the home button of my phone as he did. It's screen lights up automatically. Spock seems fascinated by the light, but is startled when a notification flys in with a buzz. I take up my phone, much to the disappointment of the cat, and take a look.

An email from _The Times_. I skim over it, excepting it to be yet another subscription offer. I am pleasantly surprised. It wasn't an ad of any kind, but an offer from the paper's editor. I think about it carefully for several moments. No doubt it would anger Ed's office.

 _"Are you criticising Mr Miliband?_ ". The voice of that irritating woman bounces about my head.

I need no other encouragement, and within minutes my reply has been sent. No doubt she would be calling me once she heard.

For I was now to become a newspaper columnist.


	82. A Dinner.

**17th April, 2012.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

Out of a sense of obligation I had sent the note. I was nearing my fortieth birthday, but still I was cautious enough to listen to my mother. She had instructed me to send an invitation, and so to the post office the invitation had gone.

"I bet he knew Liz wrote it" Nevin remarks, "He probably would have accepted had it only been you". Mother sighs and wipes her brow with the back of her hand. She had spent the last ten minutes arranging a small display of flowers on the centre of the table. It seemed a bit much for a dinner party.

"You two have upset my boy" Mother cusses my brother and I, "I haven't seen him for so long". I thought it terribly unfair of Ian to drag our mother into it all. She'd not offended him in any way.

"May I see the letter he sent?" I ask. Nevin nods and withdraws it from the pocket of his jacket. The paper feels oddly familiar as I hold it in my hand. It was a fairly plain excuse my brother had concocted. Something about being busy. I had expected little different. _This paper was definitely familiar_. It wasn't cheap stuff, but instead finely crafted and watermarked. _Fine_. Very _fine_.

"I look so ugly" my young daughter remarks, hunched over as she walks into the dining room. I tut at her. "Don't be silly" I say, "You look lovely". She did. She was shorter than most her age, and particularly thin. She took after me in that respect. She had her father's eyes, however, set bright and blue in her face. I suspected she would be quite the beauty in a few years.

"Where is your brother?" I ask my daughter. Emily giggles behind her hand.

"Upstairs, dressing" she tells me, "He can't decide what to wear". This wasn't an audience with The Queen. It was unlike Alex to be so fussy.

"Any one would think he's trying to impress someone" Nevin comments. I arch an eyebrow. A quick check of the guest list in my head tells me that there may be something in what my brother says.

Joining us this evening were a less than original bunch. The Chair of the local Conservative Association, the council leader, and our new allies the Freidmans.

"You look very smart" I compliment my son, who shuffles into the dinning room looking very uncomfortable indeed. I could see that he had attempted to tame his auburn curls, but with little success. "I like to make an impression" Alex jokes. Again my eyebrow creeps up.

"An impression on whom?" I ask cheekily. Alex simply turns his eyes elsewhere. A loud knock on the front door catches our attention. "Oh my goodness!" my mother cries, arms flailing, "I'm not ready!".

"You're not even cooking, Mother" Nevin reminds her. She slaps him on the arm and scurries away muttering to herself. My brother's poor housekeeper had been asked to prepare tonight's meal. With the promise of extra pay, naturally. I couldn't blame her for insisting on that.

One by one, our guests begin to arrive. First comes Dugmore, the Tory chairman, who seemed irritatingly familiar with Alex. Then the Freidmans made their entrance. I had been expecting Mr Freidman to bring his wife, but instead he was accompanied only by his son. Not that my own son minded. I catch sight of Emily giggling when Alex approaches the younger Freidman.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought a guest along with me" the leader of the council says, leaning on my arm as he plods along towards the front door, "My son was most keen to meet you". I glance back at the old man's car and catch sight of a young chap studying the house from afar.

"You're in luck" I say, "Mr Freidman neglected to bring his wife, so we have a spare seat at the table". I wasn't sure I trusted the old man's son. He seemed to linger, as though carefully considering something before making any attempt to step inside.

" _Jews_ " the council leader mutters to himself. I roll my eyes, quite tempted to release myself from his grasp and make him walk to the dining room himself. Thankfully, my brother is on hand to take him from my charge before I do any such thing.

"Young Nevin!" the councillor smiles, "How is your campaign going?". Nevin returns his smile kindly. The change in him over the past twelve months or so was quite remarkable.

"Quite well, quite well" he answers, disappearing into the dining room.

"I think you've dropped something" a voice from the open door says. I turn my head to see the young chap who had been lurking by the car had finally managed to make it inside. He's a scrawny individual, with a somewhat unpleasant complexion and deep purple rings encircling his eyes. I glance down as he nods towards a folded piece of paper on the floorboards.

"Ah" I say, bending down to retrieve it, "Thank you". It was Ian's note. That remarkably fine piece of paper, with its familiar feel. How odd.

"Might I ask your name?" I ask politely. The young man steps forward and offers his hand. Out of a sense of obligation I shake it. "Liam" he introduces himself, "I'm glad to finally meet you". I manage a small smile.

"And what is it you do?" I ask. He was older than Alex, by quite a bit, but well below the age of thirty. Whatever it was he did, it drained him. Either that, or he suffered from terrible insomnia.

"I recently started in journalism" Liam tells me. No wonder he had been lurking. He was adopting the ways of the press with great ease. I gesture towards the dining room, inviting him to step forward and join the others.

"Are you working locally?" I query. It was only polite to initiate conversation, after all. I feel no more at ease when I notice the young fellow eyeing the dining room with curious eyes. _What is he looking for?_

"Not quite" Liam says, the faintest hints of a smile forming on his lips, "I work for The Telegraph". I feel my eyes narrow. _I couldn't treat every single Telegraph journalist with suspicion, could I?_ Then again, this Liam fellow was particularly suspicious. What was he up to?

"How lovely for you" I manage. I watch him for several moments, only breaking eye contact once I hear my mother call. It was at that moment that I realise I am still holding Ian's note. Whilst the others are settling into their places at the table, I take a moment to look at it once more. It wasn't the feeble excuse written upon it that fascinated me so, but the paper.

It's a fine piece of paper. They weren't my words, but those of Heseltine. Another note, of an entirely different nature, had found its way to me not so long ago, on paper very similar to this. It's hardly distinctive, I tell myself, it's a piece of paper.

"Liz?" Nevin calls, frowning at me from where he sits. I clear my throat and set the note aside, before taking my own seat with our guests. I wasn't so suspicious of the Campion girl's whereabouts any more. Rob still lived with my brother, and had no doubt invited his dear sister along to join them. _It made sense_.

"You look terribly pale, darling" my mother comments, "Are you quite alright?". I glance back at where I had set the note down.

"I'm fine."

* * *

"Are you excited to become a councillor?" Noah Freidman asks my brother, sedately sipping on his wine. The eyes of our guests fix on Nevin. His upcoming election had been mentioned here and there, but politics had been avoided during our meal. Perhaps for good reason.

"Very much so" my brother says, "Provided the people elect me, of course". Unless something drastic happened, it was very likely that my brother would end the year a county councillor. I had always been rather an anomaly in Henley.

"Do you care for politics, Noah?" Mother asks the man across the table. Freidman sets his glass down and gives a light chuckle. "I dabble" the man answers.

"Father donates to the Liberal Democrats" Isaac pipes up. A snort comes from the direction of my brother's Tory guests.

"You're braver than I thought" I comment. Noah's cheeks tint a pale pink. Daring was the man who saw fit to donate even a penny to the Lib Dems. They were in an amusingly bad state.

"And what about you?" I hear my son ask the young Freidman, "Do you care for politics?". Alex had remained quite for much of the evening, as though he was distracted by something. _Or someone_.

"Yes. Though I'm afraid to say my colours are a little different to yours" Isaac replies. There is a glint in his eye as he speaks. He had struck me as somewhat reserved when first the two met, but Isaac seemed entirely at ease here. I wondered whether Alex had anything to do with it.

"I hear you're to start writing a column" I hear Liam speak. Now the eyes of our guests are fixed on me. I had been hoping to avoid any confrontation this evening.

"And where do you hear that?" I question. I hadn't gone public about it just yet. For a beginner, this Liam chap was certainly very good at his job. Journalists were naturally intrusive.

"I have my sources" he says, a creature of the press in the making, "No doubt it'll give Miliband's team anxiety". I ignore that comment and instead turn my attention to my relatively untouched wine.  _I didn't trust him_.

"Then again, I suspect there may be a number of things giving you anxiety" Liam adds. I narrow my eyes at him. He simply smiles at me. I find myself looking back at the space in which the note lies. _Ian lived not so far away. He and Rob dwelled in this very part of the country, and with them I was convinced would be the Campion girl. She was too near_.

There is a loud smash as my wine glass slips from my hand and hits the ground. "Liz!" my mother cries, startled. I clear my throat and look down at the tiny shards that now lie at the foot of my chair. Grumpily, my brother's housekeeper trails in and sweeps the broken glass up.

I'm now aware of our guests _staring_ at me. "What happened?" my mother fusses, resting her hand upon my own, "Are you unwell?". I manage only a weak smile.

"Forgive me" I say, "I think I must be a little tired". I was convincing no one, but I didn't know what else to say. _What is wrong with you?_ So long as I didn't experience another fainting spell, I would be fine.

"I think I'll go and rest in the sitting room for a moment" I say, pushing my chair back and getting to my feet, "Do excuse me". If I was to have a _turn_ , I'd rather it happened away from the eyes of tonight's guests, in particular that dreadful Liam character.

The sitting room is darker and cooler than the dining room. I'm unsure of how long I sit there, quiet and absorbed in my own thoughts, but it is the sound of the front door opening that catches my attention first.

"I do hope you feel better soon" I hear Liam speak from behind me. I rise to my feet and face him. As politely as possible I thank him for his concern and wish him good night. Before he leaves, he stops to study the series of photographs my mother had arranged on a nearby table.

"A delightful family" he comments, somewhat creepily, "And look at how young your Alex is there!". _I definitely did not trust him_. The mere mention of The Telegraph should have put me off. I was no great friend of theirs, these days, thanks to their editor.

"He reminds me of someone, you know" Liam continues, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "I can't imagine who it could be". He gives me a nod before disappearing with his aged father from the building.

"Well thank God that's over" my brother sighs as the last of our guests leave. My mother tuts. "Don't blaspheme" she warns, "Now come and help me set the dining room straight. Mr Freidman has crumpled my table cloth". Nevin attempts to roll his eyes, but is given a sharp slap on the arm before he can do so.

"Are you alright?" Emily asks me, reaching up to give my hand a squeeze. For her I can give a genuine smile.

"Of course I am" I reply, bending down to give her a kiss on the forehead, "Now off to bed with you". It was getting on, and no doubt the poor girl was keen to get to sleep. The evening can't have been particularly interesting for her.

"Are the Freidmans to be regular guests from now on?" Alex asks, loosening his tie. I find some happiness, and amusement, in my son's obvious interest in Isaac. I only hoped his interest was returned.

"If you'd like them to be" I say. Alex smiles sweetly and gives me a peck on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mother" he says, before making his way upstairs and disappearing. I couldn't see the point in retreating back to the darkness of the sitting room, and so I decide to turn in for the night.

I doubted I would sleep much. The idea of the Campion girl being so near still haunted my thoughts. And the presence of a Telegraph hack did nothing for my nerves. It was a great shame such things prevented me from sleeping. The pain they carried with them would be considerably lessened if I could sleep.

Before I make my way upstairs, I take the time to look at the photos that Liam fellow had been so interested in. I couldn't see what a person like him could gain from such pictures. They were family momentos, some from way back in the 80s, and others more recent.

Alex remained a common theme on my mother's shelves. She had thought him incredibly cute as a child, and so many pictures of him had cropped up all over the house. The image of Alex that sat upon this particular table showed my son as a toddler, his expression one of complete and unadulterated joy. He was still just as cheerful. His hair still sat in the same auburn curls, and his eyes were just as deep and dark, and not without a hint of mischief.

I sigh to myself and flick the switch of the sitting room. Into darkness it descends, and the red curls and dark eyes can no longer be seen. I would have to check with my brother the next time the leader of the council was invited around for dinner. I wasn't keen on the idea of bumping into that dreadful Liam chap again, certainly not for as long as William Lewis remained an adversary of mine.

Something about the house had fascinated him, and he had studied the photos displayed in the sitting room with an odd level of curiosity.

Alex predominantly took after me, I decided.


	83. Contacts.

**28th April, 2012.**

**House of Commons, London.**

"I very much enjoyed your column the other day". Charles seemed remarkably high spirited given his party's position in the polls. My own band, in clear contrast, were getting along quite nicely. Our strengthening position, however, had not deterred me from expressing concern about the issues I felt we were neglecting to mention.

"I think it rather brave, actually" my old friend continues, "Immigration is a tough subject for your lot". It was an issue rarely discussed during Shadow Cabinet meetings. Or indeed any where in the party machine.

"I doubt Yvette is pleased to have the party's Transport spokesperson interefering with immigration policy" I sigh, leaning back in my chair, "But what's the point in having a column if you can't have a little fun?". Charles arches an eyebrow at me.

"You're becoming a bit of a rebel, Liz" he remarks, "You should be more cautious". It is I who arches an eyebrow this time.

"Says the man who denounced his party's decision to commit to coalition" I reply. _Rebel_ was the wrong word. The hostility of Ed's office had reminded not to bite my tongue. And if I wasn't to be listened to at the Shadow Cabinet table, I would seek to be listened to in the pages of The Times.

"Still, if it gets you away from this dreadful Campion business" Charles sighs. I feel my face fall slightly. Still it continued. A number of times I had attempted to contact the police, keen to find out what they had to tell me about the threat sent to me. I had kept Ian's note to me as evidence of her whereabouts, but had kept it to myself.

"I just want to be done with her" I confess. Charles gives my hand a squeeze and offers me a sympathetic smile. "You will be, soon" he reassures me, "But for now, I'm afraid I must go". He rises to his feet and collects his jacket from the back of his seat.

"Might I expect to see you in the bar, later?" Charles proposes. I fix him with a stern stare from where I sit.

"No" I tell him plainly, "And you are not going to the bar". Charles' subsequent expression is similar to that of a scolded child. And as any strict mother might do, I remind him that _it is for his own good._

Once Charles has left my office, I take out my phone book from the top of my drawer and quickly flick through its pages. No doubt the column would provide me with a welcome distraction from the Campion girl, but I was simply unable to push her from my mind. She was a most persistent ghost.

I find my desired number and type it into my phone. A few moments later, I find myself put through to a rather bored-sounding receptionist. "Thames Valley Police" she drawls, "How can I help?."

"I'd like to speak to the Chief Constable, please" I say. The woman pauses.

"I'm sorry" she sighs, "Who are you?". I roll my eyes, grateful that she can't see me do so. There was no point in having a seemingly endless stream of contacts if you couldn't use them once in a while.

"Tell him the MP for Henley wishes to speak with him" I tell the receptionist bluntly. I am subjected to another pause, a longer one this time, before I hear the phone ring once more.

"Ms Nelson?" the constable picks up.

"Owen!" I greet, attempting to sound as enthusiastic as possible, "A pleasure to speak to you again!". I would no doubt find it difficult to get what it was I wanted without a hint of flattery. He would be more inclined to share things with me if I was kind to him.

"Likewise" the constable replies, "How can I help?". I clear my throat.

"Well, your force is currently investigating a threat sent to me by a woman named Angela Campion" I inform him, "These investigations began weeks ago, but still I haven't been told of anything."

"I'm afraid I don't dabble in individual cases, Ms Nelson" the man tells me. That certainly wasn't good enough. So much for a reliable contact.

"This entire business is placing considerable strain on me" I say, feigning an air of utter misery, "And I'm worried its concerning my children". If he wouldn't take pity on me, he would take pity on my children.

"I'm very sorry to hear that" Owen responds, "Well, I'll see what I can do. I'll call you back shortly". I smile, before ending the call and placing my phone back down on the desk. I hadn't _really_ lied. It was something that bothered me greatly.

"I've got next week's Shadow Cabinet agenda" Jonathan speaks, stepping into the office with his eyes fixed on his notebook. I sometimes wondered whether Jonathan ever really _rested_. He was paid enough for his troubles, I suppose.

"What have you done?" Jonathan asks me abruptly, looking up with a curious expression. I frown. "I beg your pardon?" I ask.

"You've done something" Jonathan repeats, "I can tell". I forgot that he had been in my employ for eight years. It was surprising that he hadn't left for higher positions by now.

"I made a phone call" I tell him.

"Who did you phone?" my aide asks.

"Are you a Member of Parliament now?" I question. Jonathan glances down at the open phone book on my desk and slides it across the surface towards him.

"Are you trying to exploit your contacts in order to _push into the queue_ , as it were?" he ponders, tapping his finger on the name of the Chief Constable.

"You can't blame me for wanting to know what's going on" I defend myself. Or at least try to. Jonathan doesn't look convinced.

"No, but I can blame you for effectively abusing your position" Jonathan says bluntly. I had always appreciated directness.

"Not everyone can just call the Chief Constable of Thames Valley and see how their case is going" Jonathan adds. I narrow my eyes at him from where I sit. I knew he was right, but I'd still wait for Owen's response. I only hoped Jonathan would be out of the room when it came.

Jonathan sits writing another of my _fucking_ Transport speeches when my phone finally buzzes. I answer it, cautiously keeping my voice low.

"I've had a ring around the departments" Owen says, "And it seems they've brought your Campion girl in for questioning". I breathe a sigh of relief, catching the attention of Jonathan but too I'm too pleased to care.

"Though, I must add, I don't know that they'll charge her, on account of her, well, _mental state_ " Owen adds, and I feel my hopes fall slightly, "And, though I shouldn't probably tell you this-". His voice trails off on the other end, as though still unsure as to whether it would be right for him to tell me.

"Go on" I invite. Owen speaks, but in a considerably hushed tone.

"They've looked into the threat you received" he tells me, "But that isn't why they're questioning her".

"Whatever do you mean?" I ask. What else had she done? Owen's tone told me it was something serious. I shuddered at the idea of the Campion girl doing something _really_ serious. It made me feel no safer at all.

"I don't want to panic you" the constable says, only provoking me further, "But, well, a young man moved into the council house formerly owned by one Eva Smith. And, well, he found something". I suddenly feel very sick indeed.

"Tell me" I insist, not caring whether Jonathan heard me now. I didn't at all like what the constable was alluding to, unless I had completely misinterpreted him.

"A stack of unused paper in one of the back bedrooms" Owen tells me solemnly, "I doubt it would have caused any concern at all, but he found that one of the sheets had been written on". I could only hang on his every word.

"A suicide note, or at least a draft of one" he continues. I give my temple a quick massage. I was sorry I had turned down that drink with Charles now. I'd need a stiff whisky after this.

"What has that got to do with the Campion girl?" I query. That catches Jonathan's attention, but he simply gives me a disgruntled look rather than an intervention.

"The suicide note wasn't written by Eva Smith. It isn't her handwriting" the chief constable informs me, "Both the paper and the writing are exactly the same as the threat sent to you". My throat becomes very dry indeed. If I couldn't get my hands on a glass of whisky, I would need a cigarette. Anything to help me better understand the mess I now found myself in.

"Are you sure Eva Smith committed suicide?" I ask quietly. I had known both she and the Campion girl were in league, but never had I assessed them to be friends of any kind. Why would Eva get someone else to write her suicide note? And why the Campion girl of all people? I was no detective, but I was beginning to piece the puzzle together.

"I've told you too much already, Ms Nelson" Owen concedes, "You mustn't worry yourself". Oh, of course not. The idea of me not worrying after this was absurd. Still, I thank Owen for his time and set my phone down again. For several minutes I sit silently in my chair, fending off any attempts by Jonathan to discover what had stunned me so.

"Leave that. We're going down to the bar" I instruct, watching as my aide scribbles away tirelessly at a piece of paper, "I need a drink."


	84. The Calm Before a Very Large Storm.

**4th May, 2012.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I'd quite forgotten what it felt like to be on the winning side. 2012 wasn't quite 1997, but it was refreshing to see Labour activists with smiles on their faces. I'm greeted warmly as I enter the hall. It was fairly risky for me to appear in person at tonight's counts, especially with press both national and local lurking about. Celebrating the victories of my own party was absolutely fine. I suspected, however, that I would this early morning be celebrating the victory of another.

"You're daring enough to be seen with me, then?" Nevin asks, proudly sporting a blue rosette on his chest. Earlier in the evening, he had been accompanied by his daughter. Catherine was as cheerful as ever, clearly coping well with the loss of her mother. I almost shuddered at the thought of Eva Smith now.

"Most of them think me a Tory anyway" I grumble, "If I can get away with being the Labour cousin of the prime minister, I think I can be seen with the county councillor of Henley-On-Thames". Nevin arches an eyebrow.

"You think I'll win, then?" he smirks. I roll my eyes.

"Your party is defending a majority of thousands" I remind him, "Of course you'll win". Even if my brother's victory was almost guaranteed, I was incredibly proud of him. The change in him was remarkable. I was only sorry our father wasn't around to see him.

"I think you're wanted elsewhere" my brother nods to another corner of the hall. I turn and walk back over to join my Labour comrades. A number of counts were taking place tonight, or rather morning, one for my brother's intended seat on the county council, and others for the local council. It was somewhat confusing, with seemingly endless piles of ballot papers being sifted through on the tables around me.

"You look very pale, Liz" Nora, one of our more senior activists, comments, "Are you quite alright?". I smile at her.

"I'm perfectly fine" I tell her.

"I'm afraid they don't serve whisky here" comes a voice from behind us, "Only rather unpleasant coffee". I glance over my shoulder and sigh audibly. Liam, the less than charming fellow who had taken dinner with my family only too recently. He was a journalist, and so not entirely out of place at the count, but he was one of William Lewis' journalists.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask sharply. Liam holds his hands up defence.

"Only a joke" he protests. I tut and give him a dismissive glance.

"I was under the impression that jokes were funny" I mutter. To my great frustration, he steps further, clearly intending to give more than a passing comment.

"After I got the Campion girl locked up for you, too" Liam grins, ever the creep. His very presence irked me. Poor Nora simply retreated.

"What are you talking about?" I ask impatiently. I had little time for the man, especially given the fact that he would undoubtedly relay anything I said to William Lewis. He was a part of an unlikely web of people who, for some reason, sought to discredit me.

The Campion girl. Her brother, Rob. Eva Smith. The Telegraph. I had offended each one, and so down into the gutter they would drag me. I hadn't quite fallen yet, however.

"Who do you think turned in that fake suicide note? The one that was actually written by Campion?" Liam says, slipping his hands into his pockets casually, "The council were kind enough to give me Eva Smith's old home. Bless them". I doubted it had been an accident that he was allocated Smith's old council home. How easy it must have been, with a council leader for a father.

"The Campion girl isn't quite locked up yet, but she will be. And then she'll be out of your hair" he goes on, "And aren't you grateful?". I narrow my eyes at him. I took all that he said with a very large pinch of salt. Even if he was telling the truth, I wasn't about to drop to his feet and thank him graciously.

"And you, of all people, just happened to find that suicide note?" I remark, "I bet your boss is pleased". Twenty years in the Commons had made rather cynical, especially in regards to the press.

"Oh, I found a few other things too" Liam tells me with a smirk, "Letters. Unsent. Addressed to you". How typical. No doubt I would be reading about these letters in The Telegraph at some point in the near future. I give the young man a final dismissive look before walking away.

"I wasn't lying" he calls after me, "The Campion girl will be tried". I didn't at all like him, but this particular moment I see a streak of honesty in him. In the same way he was honest about his obvious dislike of me, he was honest about Angela Campion. Not that I'd admit it.

She will be tried. Even if it did come from Liam of all people, it was a relief to hear it. I could have handled threats, but the more sinister involvement of Eva Smith's death had made me anxious. Already I could feel weight being lifted from my shoulders. I'd be terribly crushed if I discovered Liam was lying after all.

"Liz!" Nora beckons me. It's only when I rejoin my team that I notice the returning officer discussing something with a group of candidates, Nevin among them. I had been in his position enough to know that the results would follow suit.

"Our candidate looks a bit nervous, doesn't he?" Nora whispers as the group takes to the stage set up at the front of the hall. "I wonder why" I respond sarcastically. Journalists scuttle from their dark retreats and gather about the stage, phones at the ready. I felt like quite the old woman when I think to myself 'they always had pens and paper in my day'.

The usual formalities are gone through by the returning officer, and then, amid much anticipation, the results are announced. Most, no doubt, were aware of what the results would be, but still we were captivated. My peers were interested to see whether the local baronet would make it onto the council after a spate of bad luck. I was interested to see whether my brother would finally get a job he was best suited to.

"HOLMES, RUPERT. LIBERAL DEMOCRAT" the returning officer calls, "230". There are some gasps from the local Lib Dems. This had never been their area, but not for a long time had they pulled so few votes. The BBC's coverage of the elections told me that it was a common pattern throughout the country.

"KENNEDY, DARREN. INDEPENDENT. 87."

"OAKES, KATE. UKIP. 110."

Nora seizes my hand as the name of our party's candidate is read aloud. I suspected a number amongst my team were anticipating a surprise Labour victory here in Henley. The extremely promising results streaming in throughout the country gave them a confidence they had not felt in quite some time. And, for most, the memory of my own victory in '92 remained fresh. I'm an anomaly. As unfortunate as it was for my party, it was true.

"995" the returning officer reads. Nora's grip relaxes somewhat. I hear her give a small 'oh', before plodding away to the café for a fresh cup of tea. I glance up to the stage and catch Nevin giving me a wink. We both knew he'd won, and he'd won well.

"NELSON, NEVIN. CONSERVATIVE" the returning officer speaks, "1,927". The Tories in the room practically burst. To most, the result of a council election was but a trivial affair. The local Conservative association reacted as though Nevin had just been elected President of the United States.

I wasn't one to talk. I find myself applauding most enthusiastically. Nevin looks perfectly calm as he steps forward to give his acceptance speech. It was a stark contrast with my own first acceptance speech. I was sure I had accidentally sworn at some point during mine.

A buzz in my trouser pocket catches my attention. I retrieve it to see a text from Andy. '400 seats up so far :)'. It was typical of opposition parties to make gains at the expense of the governing party mid-term, but this seemed something quite unprecedented. We were taking many more councils than we had previously anticipated.

The Campion girl was soon to be out of sight and mind, and my scepticism about my party's prospect had proved ill founded. For once I didn't mind being wrong. Of course, there were still considerable hurdles that needed to be tackled, but we were actually making progress.

For the first time in what feels like years, I don't find myself having to reach for my cigarettes. I expected I would have a drink when I got home, but not out of stress. I still need a moment or two outside, however, as the climate of the town hall becomes rather heated. The Lib Dems and Greens were bickering about a particularly close race in a local council ward, with a hoarde of celebrating Tories looking on.

I'm startled by the sudden appearance of a plump young woman with bronze skin. I vaguely recognise her face, but it is her manner of walking that I recognise most. Clearly she struggled with the heels on her feet. She had done when first I had met her in my local parish council offices.

"Ms Nelson!" the woman greets, cheeks tinting pink with embarrassment. I could sympathise. Heels could be quite the bastards at times.

"Claire, wasn't it?" I say, wary of getting her name wrong. She had struck me as very pleasant in our first encounter. It was just unfortunate that her superiors at the parish council weren't quite so pleasant.

"Don't tell me you're still working for that dreadful man at the council?" I ask. Claire gives me a shy smile.

"Actually, I quit" she tells me, "I don't know why I didn't do it sooner". I'm quite tempted to hug her. God seemed to be looking down on me favourably of late. It made me very happy indeed to know that she was now free of those awful people. I was tempted to offer her a job in my own office.

"I feel so much more confident now" the young lady beams, "Say, is your brother inside?". I nod. I imagined Nevin would be just as pleased as I to hear that Claire had left the parish council. He had actually gone further than I at the time and called one of her former bosses a prick.

"I'm going to propose to him" Claire states suddenly. I almost fall over.

"Pardon?" I splutter, leaning against the wall of the hall for support. Had they seen each other again since the incident at the parish council? What had gone on whilst I was in London?

"That's a bit extreme, isn't it?" Claire turns to me, once again blushing with embarrassment. I narrow my eyes at her momentarily in an effort to assess whether or not she was drunk.

"Perhaps tone down the confidence slightly" I suggest, "Ask him out for coffee?". Claire clears her throat and nods.

"Coffee" she says. I watch as she attempts to straighten her skirt and fix the stray strands of her hair back into their proper place. Once she is satisfied, she strides into the hall. I'm too curious to turn my eyes away.

Into the hall I peer. I watch as Claire walks most confidently up to where the Conservatives gather. I then hit my face with my palm as her heels give way from underneath her yet again. Some laugh, but it doesn't deter her.

I cannot hear what is said, but from the surprise on my brother's face I presume Claire has simply blurted the words 'would you like to take coffee with me?' at him. For moment, I fear he is about to reject her. But then, slowly, a smile creeps onto his face.

I could still remember the days when a seemingly endless stream of buxom blondes had attached themselves to Nevin's arm. And then Eva Smith had happened, and for a long time my brother seemed to be submerged in a mood even darker than my own. Claire was sweet, if rather clumsy. Perhaps she would keep him happy?

'500 seats! :)' Andy texts. I smile at my phone and take a deep breath. No doubt some unforeseen horror would raise its ugly head before the year was done. I had come to accept in my life that I was almost always around the corner from a problem of some kind.

I would have to keep an eye on police proceedings in regard to the Campion girl, and keep an eye out on The Telegraph for the mysterious letters that Liam had spoken of.

But for now I could be happy. 


	85. Game. Set. Match.

**1st August, 2012.**

**An appropriately secluded tennis court, London.**

There were a number of things in which I could beat David Cameron. Political experience. Wit. _Looks_. The one thing I could never defeat him in, however, was _tennis_.

"Come on!" the prime minister urges, a grin on his face, as yet another ball flys past me. I slip another from my pocket and tut. PMQs was a doddle. This match was simply painful.

"You should have abandoned politics and gone into sport" I suggest, "You'd have done the country a favour". In retaliation David hits the ball particularly sharply in my direction. I only just about manage to deflect it.

"I don't think you'll be getting any calls from Team GB at any point during the summer" my cousin jokes. The Olympics were already inspiring many to take up sport. I'd encourage none to play against Cameron.

It rather reminded me of the 1980s, when we would seek to settle our many differences on the tennis court at the Camerons' home. I lost without fail, but would keenly dismantle his arguments in debates over the dinner table afterwards. There was very little rivalry between my siblings and myself. Instead, it seemed, I had struck up a rivalry with David.

We maintain a steady rally for quite some time, before David manages to outwit with a particularly tricky shot. I roll my eyes as the prime minister, a man well into his forties, raises his hands up in delight and cheers.

"Over twenty years of playing against one another" my cousin pants, reaching for his towel, "And never have you taken a set off me". I scowl as I approach him.

"You have to be good at something, I suppose" I remark. It was a good job general elections were not settled this way. Labour would never see government again.

"This is my revenge" David says, gathering his things into his bag, "For the local elections". Now it is I who smirks. The Tories had been anticipating losses, but nothing on the scale of those seen in May. It was refreshing to be in a position of smugness.

"You know the solution" I sigh, "Govern the country as well as you play on the tennis court". David snorts.

"What a profound quote" he jokes. His expression hardens suddenly, as though the reality of his position had suddenly hit him. Two years in, I'd have hoped he'd have a better feel for the job. Economic signs suggested otherwise.

"But if I were a _good_ prime minister, what would you have to write about in your columns?" David fights back. My cousin had indeed given me ample material in the wake of Labour's resurgance. Targeting my own side at this time was like knocking down a man in the process of getting up.

"All has gone very quiet on the Miliband front" David continues, "Are you reconciled now?". I arch an eyebrow at him. I got the impression he asked out of mischief rather than genuine interest.

"Why, we're the best of friends" I jest, before adopting a more serious tone, "Truth be told, I'm still not a part of the _inner circle_ , if you will. I suspect his team are wary of me, being a filthy New Labour loyalist". David dabs away the beads of sweat on his brow and slings his bag over his shoulder. The bumps in his t-shirt told me that he was, well, thickening up. I was lucky to have been born with a fast metabolism. Thirteen years of government would have made me quite the whale.

"You should have stood for that leadership" David says, "Miliband is a complete waste of skin". I hit him gently on the arm. Even if we were somewhat apart these days, _I didn't think him a complete waste of skin_.

"And face you every week?" I tut, " _God_ no". David sighs and turns to face me just before we exit the court. He reaches out a hand, perhaps offering a truce.

"Don't let them treat you so badly" he says as I shake it, "You could wipe the floor with the lot of them". My right eyebrow creeps up ever so slightly. Only ten minutes ago he had been grinning at my failure. His change in attitude was quite dramatic.

"I can look after myself" I remind him. David glances through the mesh of the court, checking to see whether his car was waiting for him. It was a private, secluded area, but still he was cautious. It doubted it was safe for him to wander freely in London.

"There's always room for you on our benches" David winks. He escapes before I can cuss him. I linger in the court momentarily as I call for a taxi. I no longer had a driver, sadly, and so was forced to put up with black cabs.

I hear David talking to someone as I step outside. Alongside his own black car was another, with the same tinted windows and a similar stern-looking driver. My cousin embraces the man he talks to, before sliding into the back of his car and being driven away. Few people were greeted so warmly by my cousin. Of course the fellow I had to cross paths with on this day was George.

"Gosh, is there a tournament going on?" I ask. George seems to scuttle away from the open car park and into the shade that hangs over the edge of the court. High Office continued to on change him. Like David, he was considerably plumper now. But, unlike David, he was also incredibly pale.

"I made the mistake of challenging Nick Clegg" George says, eyes darting about the car park as though searching for his opponent. He appeared almost skittish.

"Let him win, won't you?" I say with nick pity, "He's having rather a rough time at the moment". The Liberal Democrats had been the real losers of the local elections. And how I had _laughed_.

"And aren't you loving it?" George smirks, sharing my delight at their misfortune, "Still, I think victory against Clegg is unlikely. Heavens, that's a sentence I never thought I'd say". Still his eyes search the car park for an adversary. I wondered how long he had been cooped up in the Treasury for. _He was safe there_.

"Not quite an Andy Murray, then?" I joke. George scoffs and pats his growing stomach. "I'm not exactly in shape" he says.

"You're in government now" I tell him, "You can't stay _pretty_ ". George's year had been worse than even David's. So bad was the budget he gave in March that it had been nicknamed the 'Omnishambles Budget'.

"Besides, you're a Chancellor of the Exchequer tasked with clearing the largest budget deficit since the war" I add, "No one is expecting you to be in peak physical condition". George looks to me with soft eyes.

"You feel sorry for me, then?" he asks. I chuckle.

"No" I reply simply. It wasn't entirely true. George had accepted the job, and so now had to deal with the consequences. That didn't mean I was completely without sympathy, of course. I remembered very well the strain government had placed on me.

Movement on the car park catches my attention. Initially I think it might be Clegg, come to destroy his new rival, but upon closer inspection I see that it's my taxi.

"Even you won't take pity on me" George says with a mock air of misery. I roll my eyes at him and signal to the black cab to let the driver know I had seen him.

"Chin up" I wink, "Only three more years to go". With that, I smile at him and make my way towards the cab. George waves to me as I go. As much as he might joke, he did look a most pathetic creature leaning against the side of the court, alone and thoroughly fed up.

My phone starts to buzz. "Oh no" i grumble. My cab driver tilts his head.

"Everything alright, love?" he asks. I give a heavy sigh and weigh the phone in my hand. I was quite tempted to ignore the call. "God knows" I mutter in response.

It was Ed's Chief of Staff. The flash of her name upon my phone filled me with nothing but dread. What had I done now? I had been a most loyal MP since May, not that I'd exactly been a rebel before hand. Barely a single word of criticism had passed my lips for many weeks now.

Still, I accept the call. It's only a short one, but no less painful. In fact, I suspect this phone call might be the most painful of all.

Initially, I don't react. Calmly, I set my phone down on the seat beside me and remain quiet for a while. But then my hands begin to clench and a cold shiver runs down my spine.

A Shadow Cabinet reshuffle was not due for quite some time, yet I had already fallen foul. I had thought _fucking_ Transport was the lowest I could fall. I hadn't even been given the mercy of a sacking. Upon reflection, I wonder why I didn't refuse my demotion and return to the backbenches.

 _Because you know how it'll look_. They hadn't sacked me, so I would have to resign. The press had been waiting for me to do just that ever since the autumn of 2010. I would have to tolerate accusations of dissension, and Ed's job would be more difficult.

A shadow _junior_ minister in the Foreign Office team. It was like an insult. _You'll have to tolerate it,_ I remind myself. For Ed's sake, I would tolerate it.

That made me no less angry with him, of course.

"Excuse me" I lean forward to address the cab driver, "Would you mind terribly if we changed course?". The man shakes his head. "Where'd you be heading now, then?" he asks.

 _I would tolerate it_. Yes, I would. But I wouldn't tolerate being demoted over the phone by a jumped up staffer with as much political tact as a jellyfish.

And yes, I did intend to say exactly that to her.

Home could wait, for now. 


	86. Nerves, and the Art of Getting on Them.

**9th May, 2013.**

**St Paul's Girls School, London.**

It was seven-o-clock in the evening and I found myself sitting on a cold tiled for outside a toilet. I had sat there for quite some time now, caring very little about how creased my dress might be when I got up again. _She wouldn't budge_. With slight impatience, I glance at my watch.

"Darling, the performance begins in five minutes" I plead, "Please come out". I stand up sharply when I hear movement from inside. There is creak as the toilet door is opened slowly.

There stands my daughter, looking most sweet in a new blue dress, with her growing brown locks clipped back. She couldn't afford to have hair falling onto her face. Provided she ever made it to her performance, that is.

"I can't do it" Emily says, "I'm going to mess it up". I sigh and crouch down to meet her height. Her father had always been somewhat reserved. I couldn't blame Emily for being shy, of course. It was only natural.

"You'll be absolutely fine" I seek to reassure her, giving her a quick peck on the forehead, "Come on". Only a small audience awaited her. The parents of her class, who had gathered at the school to view a series of musical performances by their children. Emily had taken to the piano with the upmost enthusiasm initially, but progress was often slow. I would have taught her myself, had I the time.

"Our star arrives" Alex greets her, smiling  broadly, "I know you'll be wonderful". Emily manages to return his smile, if rather weakly. She had at least managed to make it into the room.

"I know I'm looking forward to it" Isaac Freidman says, giving Emily a wink. She giggles now, building up the energy to run over to her peers, who sat in a row at the front of the room. A variety of instruments had been set out. No one was expecting Mozart or Beethoven. Emily only nearing her thirteenth birthday.

"Watch out" Issac says, nodding to two smartly dressed gentlemen who enter the room. I'm almost tempted to roll my eyes. Alex's, in contrast, light up. "The Osbornes?" he ponders aloud, "Did you know they were coming, Mother?". I shake my head. Clearly, it seemed, George had decided to send his own daughter to the same school. _I could never escape_.

"I was planning on having a _pleasant_ evening" Isaac remarks, bitterness apparent in his tone. I suspected Noah Freidman had passed some of his more liberal traits down to his son.

"George _is_ pleasant" Alex protests. Isaac simply raises an eyebrow at him. I clear my throat loudly and invite the party to take their seats. I didn't at all mind Isaac's attendance. _He's a fan of classic music_ , Alex had told me, obviously keen to invite him along. I suspected he simply wanted an excuse to ask him out.

The lights in the room dim mostly suddenly. Hush descends, and so the evening begins. The performances before us aren't quite as endearing as those given by younger children. Most are capable musicians for their years. It was most bizarre to see a twelve year old attempt a somewhat stilted, yet decent, rendition of Vivaldi.

About halfway through, I glance over to where George sits. Still his stomach continued to grow, and his eyes were nothing but tired. His face does light up, however, when a young girl takes to the stage and begins a rather lovely performance of I Dreamed a Dream.

And then it is Emily's turn. She stands most hesistantly, observing the crowd before her for several seconds before making her way to the piano supplied. "She looks terribly nervous" comes a hushed voice beside me. I sigh.

"She is" I reply. But then, as Emily shakily plays her first notes, I freeze. I turn my head towards the voice and attempt to make them out through the shadow of the room. "Lionel?" I whisper, keen not to draw attention to myself, "What ever are you doing here?".

"She's my daughter too" he points out, "I didn't initially intend on coming, but I managed to find time in my schedule". It was easy to forget that Lionel still remained in very close contact with the children, though Alex less so. I had made the mistake many months ago now of telling him how we had come to he divorced. Lionel had gone down in his estimations since that point.

"Does Emily know?" I ask, sure that she would be delighted to know that her father was also supporting her this evening. I make sure I keep an eye on her whilst we talk. Her pace was rather jumbled, but she trooped on. Why she had chosen Chopin for her first performance, I did not know.

"No. I thought I'd surprise her" Lionel tells me, smiling fondly at our daughter as she plays, "Besides, I was hoping to catch you". I arch an eyebrow at him. Despite the manner of our split, we had always managed to be civil with one another.

"Can't it wait?" I say quietly. Alex didn't seem to have noticed Lionel's presence. He seemed to absorbed in Isaac's, who in turn was watching Emily most attentively. I wondered whether he was a musician himself.

"It's rather important" Lionel whispers. I sigh lightly and frown at him. I felt it most unfair on Emily, but no doubt he would insist. I was grateful to my daughter for so enthralling my fellow parents. I was surprised one of them hadn't cussed me for talking yet.

"We editors like to maintain a little _network_ " Lionel tells me, "We rarely agree, but we're aware of one another. We usually know who has what". I couldn't say I was overly interested in the inner workings of British journalism, and so I ask him to speed his story up.

"It seems your old friend William Lewis has been developing something of a database. The subject of which being _you_ " Lionel says. I remembered very well my conversation with that dreadful Telegraph hack Liam last year. He had told me then that he was in possession of some rather interesting letters.

"He hasn't used any of the information against you yet. I suspect he's waiting for the right moment" Lionel continues, unsettling me greatly. I glance back over to Emily, wary of ignoring her. I see her hand slip over the wrong sharp. She visibly winces, her face growing paler by the second. I could certainly empathise with her now. I felt dreadfully sick.

The last twelve months had been quite the blur. My demotion had given the press much to write about, with some still waiting for me to rebel against my leader and seek the top job. I was planning no such thing. My colleagues seemed more disgruntled than I did. The way in which my old friends from government had rallied around me, rather than Ed, only gave the press more cause to believe I was plotting.

And with the Campion girl now locked away in prison, and that Liam chap conveniently disappearing to London away from Oxfordshire, my mind was allowed to focus almost solely on my position. I was unhappy with the way I had been treated, but I hadn't whinged. I gave the odd subtle dig in my column from time to time, but little more.

"Thankfully, I'm one step ahead of Lewis" Lionel says, drawing my attention again, "I managed to buy over one of his hacks. He's rather helpfully handed over one or two of Lewis' most valued weapons". Still keeping an eye on Emily, I respond quietly.

"Would those weapons be letters, by any chance?" I ask. I keep my hands by my side to that they can't be seen to be shaking. I feel my breathing get considerably heavier. Did you remember your medication before you left the house?

"Yes. They're tucked away in brown envelopes, so I haven't seen them" Lionel reassures me. It was pleasing to know that he hadn't been nosy and tried to a peak, despite the cost of obtaining them.

"I suppose you want something in return now" I sigh, "For saving my skin". I had no idea what was contained in the infamous letters, only slight suspicions. I remembered well how two very important items of mine had been stolen in 2010. One had been retrieved by George, who seemed most captivated by Emily's perfomance, and the other returned to me by Eva Smith, who had said at the time that she no longer had need of it.

For a person in possession of the facts, it was an obvious puzzle to solve. As far as I was concerned, however, I was the only person in possession of all of those facts.

"Don't be silly" Lionel says, "I didn't do it to get one up on you. Besides, I haven't finished yet. Lewis still has a number of things he can use against you". I look to him with a confused expression. I was used to people doing things for personal gain by now. To witness true moral integrity, and from Lionel of all people, was quite remarkable.

"You might have divorced me eight years ago" Lionel whispers with an amused grin, "But I don't want to see you ruined by some pathetic editor with a grudge". I smile at him, genuinely, and bow my head. My nausea subsided slightly, and slowly I began to feel myself relax again.

Emily manages to bring back her performance, entering into the final seconds of the third movement with less hesitation. Even if she had made numerous mistakes, it was clear in the manner in which she played that she knew what she was doing. Very few twelve year olds would be so bold as to attempt Chopin.

"How is it you knew about the letters?" Lionel queries curiously, "What exactly is this all about?". It is at that point that my lungs turn to lead, and my limbs to jelly. I manage to compose myself long enough to see the end of Emily's piece. She receives warm applause when she hops off the piano stool. I want desperately to join in, but my only thought in this moment is to find fresh air.

Before any other musical number can begin, I make my exit. Before I leave the room, I glance back. Emily had resumed her seat beside her peers. They smiled at her and complimented her, but her expression was not that of a successful musician. She didn't even look relieved. _She was disappointed_. Disappointed in me for, as it no doubt appeared to her, leaving just as she had played her final note.

 _What exactly is this all about_? I was content for the answer to that particular question to remain with me. _And William Lewis_ , my memory kindly reminds me. How much he must delight in knowing. I questioned whether he would ever use what he knew.

There had been plenty of opportunities for him over the last few months, or years even, to seek to discredit me. Yet he had waited. _He's doing it in purpose. He was to torture you_.

Something weighed heavy in my chest. My light-headedness was paired with a dull ache in my heart. No doubt there was some deep, metaphorical reason for the ache, but instead I choose to blame it on the cardiomyopathy.

I'm not sure how long I stand outside for, but eventually my fellow parents begin to stream out of the building, holding their children close and beaming down at them with pride. I would have to talk to Emily later.

"What's wrong?" Alex asks, concerned, emerging from inside, "Are you alright?". I smile at him weakly. I tell him I'm fine and try to appear as casual and collected as I can. Alex knew me too well to believe it, but I wouldn't give in.

"Well done, darling" I greet my daughter as she walks out with her father in tow, "I knew you'd do well". Emily looks down at her shoes.

"I messed up!" she complains, "And I saw you leaving at the end!". My timing had not been ideal, but I was quite convinced I would have fainted had I not retreated outside when I did.

"I'm sorry" I say earnestly, "I needed a bit of fresh air. You were so very impressive, though". I imagined most of the parents in attendance tonight would say similar things, even if their children were in actuality less than talented musicians. I didn't feel I had to make anything up for Emily. She had done me very proud indeed.

I have a final quiet word with Lionel, before letting him say goodbye to the children, somewhat frostily with Alex, before waving him goodbye as he climbed into his car. "Come along, you lot" I sigh, "I think it's time to go home". _I need a drink_.

"One moment" Alex pauses. He waves his hand in the direction of the Osbornes. I hear George tell his father to take his daughter to the car, before approaching on his own. I remained on good terms with the younger Osborne, but I wasn't in the best of moods this evening. I certainly didn't want Alex locked in any kind of long conversation with George.

"I thought you'd be at Eton" George says to my son. Alex looked most pleased to be in his company.

"I was in the area" he says, "I'm looking for work experience, for the summer. I'm off to Oxford in September, so I thought it might be worth getting some experience in before I go". George appears impressed by his initiative.

"You should come and work in my office" he suggests, hitting me with yet another wave of nausea. To my quiet irritation, Alex jumps at the offer. "That would be lovely" he smiles.

"I really do think we ought to be going" I announce clearly, "Good night, George". With that, I hurry away. George seems confused by my sudden exit, but I can't say I'm too bothered.

"Are you sure you're alright, Mother?" Alex asks softly. _I definitely needed a drink_.

"I'm perfectly fine" I lie, chest continuing to ache.

"I should probably be off" Isaac says. Alex turns to him far sharper than I suspect is intended.

"You don't have to go just yet" he reasons, "You don't mind if Isaac stays with us a little while longer do you, Mother?". I retrieve my car keys from my coat pocket and grumble under my breath.

"No I don't mind" I snap, " _Let's just get home_ ".


	87. Mutterings in the Corner.

**11th May, 2013.**

**House of Commons, London.**

I hadn't thought it possible to be any further from the centre of affairs at Shadow Cabinet. Where once before I had sat a few seats down from Ed, flanked by the likes of Andy and Sadiq, I was now confined to a spot at the _very end_. I was grateful that a number of old colleagues chose to accompany me in the corner of shame, but they were somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of young, nameless folk who had some how managed front bench positions.

"Everything okay?" Sadiq asks me quietly, as Ed continues to ramble on in the background. I feign a smile and nod. "I'm fine" I insist. I'd had to say that a number of times today already. I feared my poker face was losing its edge.

"Yes, Liz?" Ed asks, looking down the table towards me. I hadn't spoken loudly, and I'd spotted other colleagues whispering to one another whilst Ed talked. I don't respond verbally, but frown instead.

"I thought you said something" Ed adds.

"Nothing of importance" I tell him. Eyes darted about the room awkwardly, and the temperature of the room increased by a degree or two. It was an exchange of little consequence, but one with the air of that shared between two friends who had recently argued. A slight hint of tension was felt by all around the table.

"Before we progress any further, can I just share something?" Ed Balls pipes up, continuing despite no word of approval from his leader, "The whips have told me to remind you all that the third reading of the same-sex marriage bill is coming up, so don't organise any dinners or anything for that evening". It was rare for me to smile at something said by Ed Balls.

To say I enjoyed my job at the moment would be a very large lie, but I was very much looking forward to making my way to the aye lobby for the equal marriage bill that had been put before the House some months ago. I was only sorry my party hadn't introduced it while we had the chance.

I glance over to Ed and catch sight of his ever-annoying Chief of Staff lean forward from her seat against the wall and whisper to him. "If we could get back to the agenda" Ed says, tapping his papers on the table loudly. He gives his Shadow Chancellor a fleeting, but disdainful, look. I spot Balls muttering under his breath a few moments later.

"Now, I thought today we would look at Europe" Ed addresses the table, "We have important European Parliament elections coming up next year".

"I thought we ought to seek to strengthen ties with Europe. Become more cooperative with other socialist parties on the continent" he continues, "We can't afford to be blindingly eurosceptic, like the Tories". There are some nods around the table, but Douglas Alexander pipes up.

"We can't afford to be europhiles either" he points out, prompting further nodding.

"That's what the Lib Dems are for" I snort. Ed appears to tut at the colleagues around him who chuckle lightly. _What was wrong with him?_ The Ed I knew had a wonderful sense of humour. Predictably, my eyes turn to the staffer sat behind. How she managed to control him so well, I did not know.

"I don't credit the Conservative Party with much" I say, keen to get my oar in at least once during the meeting, "But they have at least learnt how to effectively stand up to Europe where necessary". Often I had heard Baroness Thatcher droning on about Brussels. I usually stopped listening after a minute or two, but her efforts on securing a rebate for Britain earned her weighty praise from me.

"You mean they alienate us from Europe?" Ed seeks to correct me, "Hostility does no good at all". I arch an eyebrow at him.

" _Indeed_ " I mutter coolly, "I'm all for friendship with the likes of France and Germany, but I think we ought to reinforce the point that we are not _attached_ to them". One of the few things that Tony Benn and I had always been able to share civil words about was Europe. There had always been a hint of scepticism about me, but over the years that feeling had hardened somewhat.

"Friendship with our neighbours will strengthen our country" Ed goes on, clearly as enthusiastic as I about the subject. The agenda be damned. Either one of us would back down eventually.

"But getting too close will not" I challenge him, "I'm not suggesting that we stick two fingers up to them. I just think that we should make clear that we want to remain our own nation". I frown at my own words. _Good God, that sounded far too UKIP_. I hadn't been drinking.

"Our position on this is clear. We want to strengthen our ties with our allies. That's that" Ed says, remarkably firmly, "You'd do well to not ignore party policy". From beside me Sadiq winces. I expect Ed's Chief of Staff to chip in, but she remains still, the faintest hints of a smirk growing on her lips. Still, I carry on.

"I'm not ignoring it" I say calmly, "I think think it's the wrong policy". Ed sighs heavily and turns his eyes down to his papers.

"Well you know where you can go, then" he says, just loud enough for me to hear. I'm sure I gasp. It stunned me to hear such bitterness in his voice. _He's having a bad day. The Ed I know isn't like this_. My mind tries to reason with me in an attempt to avoid anger.

It fails.

"I beg your pardon?" I snap. Balls' eyes dart between the two of us. It was odd for him to play the mediator. Usually it was he who I argued with.

"Come now" he warns, "Why don't we all just calm down and crack on with the meeting?". I take my coat from the back of my chair and get to my feet. I wasn't a fan of dramatic exits, but I had no desire to stay. I was sure they would do quite nicely without me, being of such a lowly position in Shadow Cabinet. _I was lucky to even have a seat at the table any more_.

"Liz, please" Ed says, adopting a calmer tone now. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he regretted it, but I had already lost my temper. I could return and speak to him about our episode once I'd calmed down. Anything else I said now I would surely regret.

"It's as you say, Ed" I feign a smile, "I know where I can go". And that place was the Commons bar. My nearest colleagues must have been rather thirsty themselves, for their get to their feet too. "We're not discussing anything to do with my brief anyway" Andy says. I wanted to tell the rest to sit back down, but I knew they wouldn't listen.

And so, with that, I leave the room followed by a small but loyal group of men, leaving the rest of the Shadow Cabinet looking genuinely stunned. I wasn't one for dramatic exits, I maintain.

I turn on the others the minute I'm sure my other colleagues are out of earshot. "Why did you all follow me?" I ask.

"In support of you" Chuka Umunna says, "Ed was very unfair". I massage my temple and exhale heavily.

"Your business is in that room" I remind my friends, "I now look like I've incited some kind of walk out". _This plays very badly indeed_. No wonder the whips were suspicious of me, with stunts like that. I could at least say I hadn't done it with the intention of encouraging others to get up and leave.

"Thank God there aren't any journalists about" Andy laughs. Just then, Sadiq slaps him sharply. We all stare at him with shocked expressions for several seconds, before turning on our heels to see what it was that he now glared at.

"And just to top off a fabulous afternoon" I sigh, "My ex-husband appears". Lionel shakes his head and moves closer.

"We got along perfectly well the other day" he points out, "Anyway, I'm only dropping by". By his side he holds a brown envelope. I can't help but chuckle slightly when he hands it to me.

"Goodness. First we're spotted walking out of a Shadow Cabinet meeting" I joke, "And now I'm handed a mysterious brown envelope". It was like The Telegraph's _dream_.

"Keep them safe" Lionel winks. I gulp. I had felt extremely sick when he had first told me about The Telegraph's apparent collection of evidence against me. To have a piece of that collection in my hand made me just as sick.

"Liz?" Andy asks softly, eyes inspecting me with no small amount of concern. I clear my throat and compose myself. It was really rather terrible, to know that there were people out there waiting for my destruction. _They wouldn't have much longer to wait_.

"Come along, you lot" I say, tucking the envelope deep into the pocket of my coat, "We haven't escaped early for nothing."

"Let's go for a drink."


	88. Gloriously Uncivilised.

**17th May, 2013.**

**House of Commons, London.**

It pained me to know that the man I listened to on the radio was effectively my boss. My demotion to the Foreign Affairs team made me a body of Douglas Alexander's. Previously, I had thought him a decent chap. Now he simply irritated me.

"Mr Alexander, you appear to have a relatively harmonious relationship with your leader" Nick Robinson speaks, "But what about your own front bench team?". I cringe slightly when I hear Douglas give a particularly fake laugh.

"I wonder which member of that team you're about to refer to" he replies.

"Elizabeth Nelson has of course developed a reputation of late as something of a _firebrand_ " Robinson goes on, causing me to accidentally snap the pen I'm using, "How do you find working alongside her?". He asks the question as though I'm some kind of strange, foreign creature with no brain cells.

"I have a lot of time for Liz" Douglas says, "If this were Desert Island Discs, I'd suggest She's a Lady by Tom Jones in thought of her". I am but moments away from throwing my heel at the radio. I decide to resist the urge for now.

" _Yes_ " I mumble to myself, "And the song that most reminds me of you is Fuck You by Lily Allen". I time my moment poorly, for Jonathan walks in at the moment the sentence passes my lips.

"I doubt Radio 4 will play that one for you" he jokes. I throw my broken pen into my bin and reach into the drawer of my desk for another.

"You've broken another one?" he sighs, moving over to the window of the office. I had been too busy murmuring to myself to open it. I find the cool air that flows into the room moments later refreshes me a great deal, even if the smell of the Thames was deeply unpleasant.

"I think I saw Heseltine approaching" Jonathan warns, "He was plodding along one of the downstairs corridors behind me. There's no other reason for her to be in this neck of the woods". I occupied something of a corner in Parliament. I was located three floors up and at the end of a rather long corridor. It was brave of Michael to attempt such a distance.

"Have you thought about Question Time yet?" Jonathan asks, flipping his diary open on the desk, "It would be a good opportunity for you to talk about the same-sex marriage Bill". I turn my eyes down to my phone as it vibrates suddenly. _David_. With Douglas Alexander still droning on in one ear, I wasn't sure I wanted my cousin droning on in the other.

"I'm turning it down" I tell my aide, ignoring the incoming call.

"Why?" Jonathan frowns, "You haven't been on Question Time for-."

"I'm not in the mood for extended media appearances at the moment" I tell him, perhaps more sharply than I'd have prefered. Again, David's name flashes up on the screen of my phone. I push it a little further down the desk to distance myself from it.

"The only way the media seem to know that you're alive these days is because of your column" Jonathan argues, "Going silent now makes it look as though Ed's lot have pressured you into keeping your mouth shut".

"Alternatively, of course, I could accept every appearance I've been offered and be accused of trying to overshadow Ed again" I reply coolly. My so-called 'disappearance' from the eyes of the tabloids was the result of my own tiredness, rather than the fear of upsetting the party leadership. Politics was no fun at all these days.

"Suit yourself" Jonathan concedes, withdrawing his laptop from his back with a thoroughly disgruntled expression. _Now you've made him angry_. I hadn't intended to spread my foul mood, but it was perhaps inevitable in an office this size.

I sit back in my chair and close my eyes. _Just breathe_. In a few months or so, Parliament would finish for the summer and I would be free to rest properly. To think there had once been a time when I was eager to get to work in the morning.

And then my phone buzzes once more. I sit up sharply and seize it from where it lies. _David Cameron_. In this particular moment, I didn't care in the slightest that he was the prime minister. I never really cared that he was my cousin.

Had I been in a _slightly_ better mood, I might have simply put my phone on silent mode and ignored him for the day. That was what a person of reasonable temperament would do.

I, however, suddenly find myself throwing my phone through the open window. Jonathan leaps up the moment it leaves my hand and tries to rush after it. Even over the sound of the many cars crossing Westminster Bridge I hear a satisfying _plop_.

"I'm ever so sorry" comes an eloquent voice from the office door, "I thought I'd let myself in". Whilst Jonathan continues to stare, stunned, out of the open window, I get to my feet and greet the old woman entering the room.

"Apologies, Michael" I say, "Do come and sit down". I offer him the seat opposite my own and clear my throat. _How long had he been standing there?_

"Ghastly inventions, mobile phones" Heseltine says, sending a rather sharp chill down my spine, "You're doing the country a great favour by throwing yours like that". _Shit_.

"I lost my temper" I admit, "It doesn't exactly bode well for me in a business where composure counts". Heseltine smiles.

"You needn't worry yourself" he reassures me, "Being surrounded by male socialists for so many years is bound to drive you insane". It was probably the wisest thing he had ever said.

"Shall we take tea?" Heseltine proposes, "You look like you need a nice hot drink and some decent conversation". Despite my bad mood, I feel I can only accept. I would have to apologise to Jonathan for my behaviour later. _And buy a new phone_.

"Goodness, how did you manage the stairs?" I ask as Heseltine and I leave the office together. He walked extremely slowly, with his back hunched over slightly. I manage to find the patience to mirror his pace.

"Thankfully, _lifts_ exist" Heseltine says, reaching out a hand for support. He was of a grand old age by now.

"You won't mention the, err, _phone throwing incident_ to any one, will you?" I ask quietly, keen for none of my colleagues to hear about it. Heseltine chuckles to himself.

"Certainly not" he says, "Though it would be something of a shame". I arch an eyebrow at him.

"It was _gloriously_ uncivilised."

* * *

One item of technology that I would not be throwing into a body of water was my laptop. Amongst its many other functions, it acted as a means by which I could keep in regular contact with Alex.

Where once my only way of speaking with someone from a distance would be to call them on an incredibly thick and heavy phone, I could now _Skype_ them. Though, I must admit, I had not come to use such things without a great deal of help from my children.

"I do hope I'm not distracting you from your revision" I say, "Though I suspect Spock does a good job of that already". I can't help but smile as the infamous cat, no longer a ball of fur, leaps past the screen. Alex watches his movements with an amused smile.

He had previously been forced to keep the cat at home whilst he boarded at Eton, but, after the student who had told on him left, he had decided to keep Spock with him for his final term.

"I think you'll find I'm predicted an _A_ in Mathematics" he reminds me, rightly smug.

"To think you used to struggle so much with Maths" I sigh, mind wandering back to earlier years when Alex had been very frustrated by his own inability to solve even the simplest of problems.

"Though I'm still not bold enough to apply for it at Oxford" he jokes. Many parents, I was led to believe, dreaded sending their children off to university. Alex would in fact be studying _nearer_ to home when he went off to Oxford.

"PPE is a decent course" I reply, "So long as you try and beat David's results". Mathematics was an acquired taste, I had to concede. My love for the subject had always made me look slightly odd at college.

"George tried to convince me to apply for History" Alex speaks. I furrow my brows at him.

"George?" I ask. I knew precisely which George he referred to, though why he referred to him so casually I did not know. I glance past my laptop and find the brown envelope Lionel had handed me still remained on my coffee table.

"He gave me his email address" Alex informs me, clearly quite proud of himself, "So I can start to organise work experience for the summer". I wasn't keen on Alex spending the month in George's office, but, seeing his enthusiasm, decide to say nothing in objection.

"If it's what you want to do" I say instead.

"He asked after you in his email, by the way" Alex adds, "He wanted to know if you were well". I was about as well as he was, if his appearance was a reflection of his mood. And after seeing the solemness of his expressions at Prime Minister's Questions, I'd say it was.

"You never told me you were a friend of his at university" Alex says suddenly. I find I sit up against the sofa very sharply. My laptop shakes slightly on my lap.

He was a young person interested in politics, with access to all sorts of information on the internet. He was bound to have found out eventually. I was only glad he hadn't found out about the extent of our _friendship_.

"Darling, I'm afraid I must go now" I interject, "Downton Abbey is on in a moment". It was a pathetic excuse, particularly in regards to my own son, but nonetheless I stick with it.

"Downton Abbey airs on Sundays" Alex points out, eyebrows creeping up as my own so often do.

"I know, but I've recorded the last few episodes" I angle, "I promised myself I'd start catching up at nine". Alex narrows his eyes at me briefly, before giving me one of his particularly pleasant smiles.

"I'll speak to you tomorrow, then" he says, "Sleep well". For a boy nearing his eighteenth birthday, he possessed the sweetness of one half his age. He was no wet blanket, but he was considerably more pleasant than I was. There was an ease about him that he had not inherited from me.

I didn't actually intend to watch Downton Abbey. It was true that I needed to catch up, but something else required my attention first.

I set my laptop aside and take up the brown envelope waiting for me. Hesitantly, I open it.

Inside are two letters, both written in a very lovely, feminine hand. I could instantly tell that they had been written by Eva Smith. Even her perfume seemed to linger on the paper, which is predictably the same as that used by the Campion girl for her threats.

Both letters are dotted with scribbles and spelling mistakes. I knew these letters had been only simple drafts, but I highly doubted their content would have changed in the final copies.

I skim read them both, before going over them once more to properly digest the information crammed into them. They were just as I had expected.

 _The locket. The stolen photograph. The Campion girl_. And, to make it a quartet of pure joy, _blackmail_. I had been truly sorry to hear of Eva Smith's death, and even more so upon hearing that the Campion girl was now in prison for it, but I wasn't sorry these letters had never been completed.

I hated reading them now. I was quite sure I would have suffered a heart attack had I opened my letter box one day to find them awaiting my attention.

When I feel I've read them as much as possible, I slip them back into their envelope and hide them out of sight. They held the bare truth, and so I couldn't claim to be entirely shock. Yet to see that truth written in plain English left me stuck in silence.

Usually when politicians lied, they lied about certain shady figures they had shared platforms with. Or promises they made during election campaigns. Or about their achievements since assuming office. Some might even feel the need to lie about their sexuality, or that they smoked pot at university. _Of course I would be different_.

Unsure of whether to cry at the gravity of it all, or to laugh at the ridiculousness of my predicament, I lift my television remote from the coffee table.

Perhaps I would watch a bit of Downton Abbey after all.


	89. Light Relief.

**21st May, 2013.**

**House of Commons, London.**

"I could give you the number of my therapist, if you'd like". I'm in no mood for Charles' jokes today, and make it clear with another of many disapproving looks. He snorts into his drink.

"Do cheer up, lass" he urges me, "I feel like I'm drinking with the Grim Reaper". I sigh heavily and reach for my scotch. In what appeared to be an unwise miracle, the opening hours of the Commons bar had been extended.

"I was expecting sympathy" I tell him. It sounded somewhat pathetic, but I was beyond caring at this point. Charles rolls his eyes at me and sets his glass down to give my hand a squeeze.

"Look, the position you're in is an utterly shite one" he says frankly, "And I'm sorry you're in it, but you can't afford to just mope about all the time". My moods did pave the way for 'grumpy Scot' jokes, it could be reasoned.

"Just think about the vote tonight" Charles reminds me with a smile. I certainty wouldn't be moping if the House voted aye on it.

"Equal marriage, achieved in our lifetimes" I ponder aloud, "Provided we don't have too many rebels on the Tory benches, that is". Again, Charles snorts. I was glad that he, unlike me, was in high spirits of late. He could now drink casually and, most importantly, _moderately_.

"It's taken long enough" he says, "We MPs can make terrible cock ups at times, but it's reassuring to know that we can at least get some things right". I couldn't have put it better myself.

"It'll be good to know that there has at least been one thing that I haven't wasted my vote on" I add. I had voted Aye on many a Bill in the past that I had been proud of, but I suspected nothing would top the vote on the horizon. Already I could feel my mood lifting at the thought of fairness' side being successful in legalising equal marriage.

"You say that as though you're about to resign your seat" Charles jokes. I manage to laugh along, ignoring the leap in my heart at the suggestion of leaving.

"Another drink for luck?" Charles proposes. I check my watch and think carefully for a moment. "Actually" I reply, "I think I'll just head over to the chamber now". Charles appears surprised. Eventually, he concedes too.

"If this is to be a historic evening" he says, slipping his jacket on and straightening his tie, "I'd rather I was sober enough to witness it".

And so, with renewed confidence and high expectations, to the Commons we go.

* * *

My confidence in the Commons is restored when I see how full the Aye lobby is. Along my colleagues walk, some quietly anxious, others brimming with excitement. I fall in between. Despite our great numbers, the number of Conservatives I had spotted making their way to the No lobby concerned me.

Andy and I quietly assess our chances as we pass through lobby. "Oh, sorry" I apologise to the man beside me, having been too interested in my conversation with Andy to pay attention to where I was walking.

"The last time I bumped into you here was in 2004" George says, ever the unusual greeter, "We were voting on equal rights then, too".

"So you have a heart after all" I reply sarcastically. Despite my reservations about him supplying Alex with work experience during the summer, and the other things weighing heavily on my mind, I indulge him. He has been just as miserable as me of late. We both deserved a joke or two.

"Of course I do" George says, "It's hidden underneath all this muscle I have". He pretends to flex his 'muscles'. Several MPs around him stare, but I laugh.

"You couldn't use those muscles of yours to push your backbenchers in here, could you?" I query. The knowledge that so many MPs, who consistently claimed to be of a party that helped all in society, could simply turn their back on marriage equality saddened me. David and George had gone to great lengths over the years to try and change their party, but still they seemed to remain the exception rather than the norm.

"Alas, no" George admits, "Asking our right-wing backbenchers to change their minds on homosexuality is like asking the Lib Dems to stop sitting on the fence". Despite the exhaustion in his eyes, his wit was as sharp as ever. 

"Still not getting along with your bedfellows, then?" I ask cheekily. Cameron and Clegg appeared to be a picture of happiness in the Commons. I wouldn't be surprised if they announced they would be getting married after tonight's vote. George, on the other hand, was less keen.

"Nonsense" he says, "Clegg makes a splendid cup of tea". The tellers in the lobby frown at us as we titter away to ourselves. We probably looked like silly schoolchildren, but it felt good to laugh after the events of the last few weeks and months.

"I think I should probably say" I speak, on a more somber note, "It's kind of you to offer to take Alex in your office during the summer". For Alex I would pretend to be completely happy with the idea. It would do my son no favours if I dragged my heels.

"It's quite alright. I look forward to it" George smiles, "He strikes me as a very intelligent young man". It was an accurate assessment, but still I didn't like it. _Don't let him get attached_.

"I know Alex is looking forward to it too" I say. I thought it only kind to let George know that his interest was reciprocated.

"Why so I get the impression you don't like the idea?" George asks, a knowing smile playing on his lips. _Was I that obvious?_ As far as I was concerned, I had hidden my discomfort very well. I was glad that George didn't appeare bothered  regardless. I had worried whether he'd thought my reservations were a reflection on him.

"What gives you that idea?" I lie. George's smile only grows.

"Unfortunately for you, I know you" he tells me honestly, "It's only natural that you should have some reservations". I'm grateful for that, at least.

"I suppose you do know me by now" I snort despite myself, "God knows why you still _talk_ to me". I wouldn't talk to myself even if I was the last person on Earth.

"Someone has to" George pokes, "Even if your own leader won't". I roll my eyes at that particular remark. I'm slightly surprised when his expression hardens to one much more serious.

"There are many on my side who think you've been treated appallingly by Miliband" he informs me, "You deserve better, in my opinion". I arch an eyebrow.

"Bold words for a Tory" I jest. George forgets his exhaustion for a moment, just as I do, and shoots me one of those old boyish grins of his.

"I have my moments."


	90. Summer.

**19th July, 2013.**

**Oxford, Oxfordshire.**

And so, to my great relief, Parliament's business came to a close. And to reward us for our hard work over the last few months, we were given a party.

The Spectator were rather brilliant at get togethers. They had, this year, chosen an extremely pleasant, aesthetically pleasing corner of the Oxfordshire countryside, perhaps an attempt to remind blinded MPs that there was in fact a world outside of Westminster.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" William Hague asks, pint of bitter in hand. I shake my head and nod to the vacant seat beside me. The inclusion of alcohol meant that debates rarely broke out at parties such as this. Conversation was usually trivial to an amusing degree. Only several minutes ago, Robert Peston had approached me to say that he had seen a squirrel in a nearby tree.

"I expect you're busy" Hague says, sipping on his beer, "With all this talk of action in Syria". I frown at him over my wine.

"You're the Foreign Secretary" I remind him, "You should know more about that than I". Syria did indeed dominate debate in the incredibly dull circles that were foreign affairs, but I knew little about any future action in the country.

"So" I say, "Is there to be action?". Hague blinks at me, as though processing the question. No doubt he was considering whether or not to tell me.

"It's likely" Hague answers simply, "Assad becomes more of a problem by the day". Much of the Syria debate reminded me of Iraq. Though, whilst Iraq may have scarred me politically, I hadn't yet set my face against action in Syria.

"Intervention is sometimes necessary" I say. Hague looks somewhat surprised by my standpoint.

"I doubt your party will agree" he warns, "Miliband shoots down even the slightest suggestion that we take action in Syria". Just as I was scarred, Labour was scarred. Iraq was something that we had never escaped from. No matter what our successes since that time, the weight of it all remained around our necks.

"I suppose it's another issue that I'll be forced to break ranks on" I contemplate.

"You're very bold" Hague says, "Miliband would almost certainly whip the vote. You'd have to resign if you wanted to vote for it". _It's not as though you're enjoying your work at the moment_.

"Let's not get bogged down by silly hypotheticals" I move on, "Have you anything interesting planned for the summer, William?". Hague opens his mouth to answer but is cut off by another. I almost drop my drink.

"I'm not doing anything interesting over the summer" William Lewis interjects, standing over us, irritatingly proud, "Though I have a great deal of interesting things to look at don't I, Liz?". He winks at me.

Hague has to stop me from throwing my drink at him. It would be a shame to waste such good stuff on him, after all.

"Excuse me a moment" Hague retreats, taking his pint with him. I grumble under my breath as Lewis takes Hague's vacated seat. I don't speak.

"Hypotheticals are most interesting" he thinks aloud, "For example, say a newspaper editor is contacted by two people who have been wronged by a certain member of the establishment". I don't even look at him as he rambles on.

"Say the newspaper editor has also been wronged by that member of the establishment" Lewis continues, "Should evidence proving that person's lack of integrity come forward, the newspaper editor would feel only obliged to share it". I suspect that, should I get up and walk away, he would only follow me.

"Casting doubt upon your own leader. Poorly treating a woman who went on to commit suicide" Lewis lists quietly, "Convicing a police chief to reveal sensitive information. And then there's your boy-". I stand up sharply and turn on him. I keep my hands firm by my sides, so as not to draw attention to the shaking in them.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, "Why are you so set against me?". Lewis laughs as though I've missed something obvious.

"I was really very keen on you, you know. I was actually quite attached" he tells me, "I dismissed stories from my paper that I knew would cause you bother. I fended off the likes of the Mail and the Sun to save your skin. Yet, in the end, I never got anything in return". I scoff.

"So you'd happily see me destroyed because of your hurt pride?" I challenge, "You're an adult, William, don't be so pathetic". Still he smiles.

"I'm also an editor. If I hear of something interesting, I print it" he says, "Tell me, what are your motivations? Your career has been heading south ever since Miliband took the top job. Chances are you'll never stand for election again."

"What is it that makes Elizabeth Nelson so keen for me not to reveal what I know?" Lewis continues, his mouth smiling but his eyes filled with something dark, "You've always prided yourself on your thick skin. Surely you could survive whatever bullshit I have up my sleeve?". His words are filled with no small amount of poison. _He's enjoying this_. I find I am unsure of how to respond.

"You talk about my pride, but what about yours?" Lewis talks quietly, moving closer to me, "You don't even care about how it all might effect those around you. You're just worried you won't be able to show your face at Notting Hill dinner parties without blushing". I stare at him long and hard, hoping that the thoughts I struggle to translate into coherent sentences are communicated through my eyes.

"Enjoy your summed, William" I say through gritted teeth. I finish my wine quickly and make my exit. I hear Fraser call out to me as I head towards the car park, but I ignore him. I had been hoping for a chance to relax, but once again I had been unlucky.

You're just worried you won't be able to show your face at Notting Hill dinner parties without blushing.

The cheek of him. I continue to fume over his words as I drive along Oxfordshire's many country lanes. I aim to stick to the speed limit with varying degrees of success.

I'm grateful to have the house to myself for the rest of the day. Emily visited Lionel in London, and Alex would not return from Eton until tomorrow. He would have to stay with Lionel when he began work at George's London office. I was quite keen on staying in Oxfordshire for much of the next month. The hills provided me with much-needed tranquility.

When I finally make it home, still angrily muttering away to myself, I kick my heels off, put on one of my Elvis records and hunt out a fresh bottle of scotch. I looked like quite the slob, sprawled on my couch, alcohol in hand, but I wasn't in the mood to care.

In the hallway I hear my letter box open. There is a gentle scraping sound as something falls on the mat below. I go and fetch it when I can be bothered to move.

"A letter" I sigh heavily, ignoring the increasingly apparent aching in my chest, "How _lovely_ ". I tear open the envelope and take out the paper tucked inside. _It feels familiar_.

I glance out of the window in the hallway and peer down my drive. I don't recognise the man I see walking down it until he turns his head slightly. _Rob Campion_. I grumble away to myself and fold the letter out. I presumed it to be from my brother. He contacted me when he felt like it these days.

But then I realise that it isn't from Ian. Ian disliked me, but not to the extent where he'd send me a _threat_. Threats were the tool of the Campion girl.

I freeze.

The letter was written on the same old paper, but the hand was different. To the window I go again. By now, Rob Campion has disappeared. I sink down onto the floor and sit against the front door for a moment. My heart continues to ache, but I ignore it.

The Campion girl was gone. She was locked away. I contemplate calling the local Chief Constable again to check, but I'm put off by the mental image of William Lewis' smirk. _She was gone. She had to be_.

I rip the paper up and throw the remnants down the hall. To think I had once joked about the threats sent to me. They seemed to plague me now. Again and again I remind myself that the Campion girl was behind bars. But again and again my mind goes straight back to her. They were her domain.

But then I also think of Rob Campion. He would have known that I was in, and he appeared to be in no great rush when he walked down my drive. He had only been too keen to openly display his disdain for me in the past. _He wouldn't care if I knew_.

And so, with Elvis droning on in the background, as I lay, a mess, on the floor of my hallway, I begin to suspect that I have not one but two enemies in the Campion family.

I hated their name as much as they hated mine. 


	91. A Stranger About the House.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning- this will be a very long and creepy chapter.

**20th August, 2013.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

_'Take it steady'_. Those were the words repeated to me by a seemingly endless stream of doctors. None of them were any good. Again and again they advised me against _'strenuous activity'_. It was rather like telling a professional tennis player to stop playing cricket. It was not excessive physical strain that bothered me so, it was psychological strain.

They had attempted to hush up the disappearance of the Campion as much as possible. I would never have known had it not been for my old friend the chief constable. Nevin had been most livid with him, insisting that it was better I remained oblivious. Perhaps. But there was about as much safety in ignorance as there was awareness.

I got by, spending my summer days at home for the most part. The family home provided with well-needed refuge. Occasionally I would think back to the holiday I had enjoyed with the Blairs. I had returned to parliament after that holiday with a light tan. I'd return this September looking paler than I had been when I left.

It was hotter inside, but I didn't mind. I felt sheltered there.

But now it was night. Late I had managed to escape from my doctor. All that could be done, it seemed, was provide me with stronger medication. _'Don't drink'_ he had insisted. I remind myself of the rather lovely bottle of scotch Nevin had tucked away in his study. That would do nicely for this evening, I decide.

My phone, considerably stronger than the one I had thrown into the Thames buzzes on the empty seat beside me. It was late, and the roads were quiet. I pick it up, eyes still fixed ahead of me, and accept the incoming call.

"Where are you?" Alex's voice calls out, "It's getting dark". I can see that.

"I'm almost home now" I tell him, "How long have you been home?". Alex had a number of weeks left before he made the move to university. He had very much enjoyed his time at George's office, but felt it would only be right to spend what remained of his holiday at home. So many about town had barely seen him when he began studying at Eton.

"George dropped me off this afternoon" Alex says. I grumble under my breath.

"I thought you were getting the train" I question. _Why was George here?_ I was grateful to him for taking Alex in as he had, but I didn't want him lingering.

"George offered. He said he was headed up here any way, for some policy thing" Alex says, "He's gone into town for something now. He should be-". Alex's voice trails off at the other end.

"Hello?" I frown. Connection wasn't brilliant in this part of the country. Several moments pass before I'm able to hear Alex again.

"Bad signal?" I sigh. Again, Alex pauses.

"No, no" he says, chuckling slightly, "I thought I saw something in the garden". The gardens Oxfordshire were also a  target for a wide range of wildlife. Including the occasional stray cow, should a nearby fence collapse.

"I think you're in need of sleep" I advise, "I shan't be long". No sooner had I ended the call, I was forced to brake sharply. It was so typically rural, to see an overturned tractor, of all things, in the road. I manage to swerve around it and make the steady journey home.

I often wondered why large estates, such as that owned by my family, were situated so far from the road. In the days of horses and carts it was no doubt sufficient to have a tiny little lane connecting you to the rest of civilisation, but not with a 21st century car. It was lucky I hadn't inherited the house upon my father's' death. I would have sold it in frustration by now.

Bizarrely for the hour, there are no lights on. The curtains remain open, but I can see that the rooms that they shield are left in darkness even from where I stand on the drive. I step inside.

"Hello?" I call. It was a large house, so I wait several moments for whoever it home to reply. But no reply comes. Clearly Alex had done as advised and gone to bed. I'm about to make my way into the living room when I spot something on the floor.

The note. The most recent note. I had hidden it in the study, safe and secure should the police have further need of it. They had previously promised me a household guard of sorts. But no guard came. Not that I needed one, in reality. One of the finer points of taking up residence at the family home rather than my own was that very few people knew I was here. And the remoteness of it made it all the more difficult to find me.

Neither the Campion girl, nor her awful brother Rob, could get to me with their awful notes. I was quite convinced that he was a part of it all. I had always suspected as much.

I pick up the threat from the floor and open the study door. It was best to get it safe before George arrived. The fewer the number of people who knew, the better. I'd also made a point of hiding the brown envelope.

"What the-" I mumble as the study door hits something solid. I barely opened. I squeeze through the gap and turn to see what had been blocking my way. My knees give way beneath me. I would have turned on the light had I not found my limbs so weak all of a sudden.

"Alex?" I whisper, turning the slumped figure of my son over so that I could see his face. _He's breathing_. He hadn't fallen asleep. I pull my hand away from the back of head and find tiny droplets of blood on my fingers.

Is only then that I notice the state of the study. Nevin had tidied it up since becoming a councillor. Books were ordered alphabetically by author, and all papers were tucked away neatly in folders. Not any more. Paper was strewn all over the place, alongside damaged old books that lay open on the carpet. Someone had been searching something. _And given the appearance of the note on the floor of the hallway, they had found it_.

I was quite convinced that I myself was sleeping. I had fallen into some kind of insane fantasy in which I had become the protagonist of a low budget, and incredibly cliche, thriller. What exactly had my doctors been prescribing me?

A whimper behind the crooked desk of the study catches my attention. I sit Alex upright and rush over. Underneath the desk huddles Emily. I hold her close to me, eyes still fixed on Alex. _This definitely was a nightmare_.

"She came in through the garden" Emily whispers to me, "Alex and I were in the sitting room, and then she appeared at the window". I fight back my own tears as the poor girl breaks down again. _Let me escape, for the love of God_.

"Alex told me to run. So I did. I should have stayed with him" Emily sobs against my chest, "I'm a coward". I kiss her forehead softly and turn my eyes towards the study door. _I want to wake up now_.

"She dragged him in here. I wanted to scream" Emily goes on, "I think she went upstairs. I could hear her moving, but then-". Her voice trails off.

I don't rush her. Even if all of this was but a fabrication of my mind, a side effect of the horrid pills I had been given, I would not rush her.

"There were angry voices. Like a fight" she says eventually.

"Voices?" I ask quietly, wary of my surroundings. Any intruder in the house would undoubtedly have heard my car pull up onto the drive. The floorboards of the house were not exactly silent, either.

"A man came too. Quite some time after the woman" Emily informs me, eyes wide with fear, "By then I was hiding. Though I think she was actually trying to-". I cut her off when I hear a loud creak in the hallway. I hold her ever closer and retreat underneath the desk.

The creaking moves into the room. I hold my breath, all the while stroking Emily's trembling head. Stay calm. You must stay calm. My chest aches, but I ignore it. For my children, I had to ignore it.

Footsteps grow closer to the desk, but stop before they find us. After a very painful minute of total silence, the footsteps die away again, and the study door is shut firmly. I creep out from underneath the desk and slip my phone out of my pocket.

"Where is your uncle?" I ask my daughter.

"In town" Emily sniffs, "He went with Mr Osborne when Alex came home. I think he said he was going to meet Uncle Ian whilst Mr Osborne did his business". I place the phone in her hand and give her another kiss on the forehead for strength. "I want you to call him" I instruct her quietly, "Tell him what's happened and that he needs to come home now. And then phone the police". I get to my feet.

"Where are you going?" Emily asks desperately.

"Please, you must do as I say" I tell her firmly. Emily hesitates, before turning her worried eyes to the phone and doing as instructed. God, how I wished I could wake up. I doubted I would be forgetting this particular nightmare any time soon.

"I don't think the man is-" Emily speaks as I make for the study door. I turn to her and shake my head. "Stay quiet and hide if you hear anyone coming" I say, "I'll be perfectly fine". The look of terror in her eyes pains me greatly, but I knew she would be safer away from me.

Even if this was a horrid nightmare, it was one in which I was very much aware of my role in it. Perhaps I wasn't the protagonist in this dreadful thriller. Protagonists were good people. I'd have never got myself into such bother with either Campion had I been a good person.

I gulp when I find myself standing alone in the hallway once more. Again, I go to turn the lights on, but stop myself at the last minute. The strangers who lurked about the house would not be deterred by light. If anything, it would blow my cover.

I slip my heels off, conscious of the loud sound they make, and creep along towards the kitchen. _I knew exactly what to retrieve from there_.

Both the dining room and the kitchen are empty. I keep close to the walls, looking more a fool than a skilful spy. I didn't feel any safer, even with a knife in my hand. _You would never use it_. After the circumstances of Eva Smith's death, I felt I had to take all necessary precautions.

The Campion girl was familiar to me. Her brother was not.

 _Wake up_.

I find myself drifting into the sitting room. I see one of Alex's books discarded on the coffee table, as though it had been thrown down in fright. Alongside it lies a sparkly hairbrush of Emily's. I turn in the direction of the hallway. I prayed to God that she would be brave.

On the small end table, nearest the living room door, lies a familiar brown envelope. Its seal is torn open, and its contents missing. They _had_ been searching. What's more, they knew _exactly_ what they had been looking for. I wondered whether Lionel's discovery of the letters the envelope contained was as discreet as he'd thought.

William Lewis must have told them. One of The Telegraph's hacks had handed them to Lionel, and for a pretty price no doubt. The hack who had told me about their existence originally was the rather unlikeable fellow Liam. I begin to wonder whether it was in fact he who had betrayed his master and gone to Lionel.

_You can play Sherlock later._

I look about the room for the letters that the brown envelope had hidden. I'm distracted by the sound of a door opening in the direction of the pantry. The back door. I hadn't thought to check it.

Back into the dining room I sprint, cautious of shutting its doors in case the sound atttacted attention. It's only as I hide against the wall that I realise there are two pieces of paper set out on the dining table. Neatly they lie, perfectly parallel with one another. My heart aches all the more when I find myself reading their damning words again.

_When will it end?_

_Soon._

A siren wails in the distance. I had left Emily to call them but minutes ago. The police had come remarkably quickly, given the distance between the house and the local station. Not that I minded, naturally.

I finish reading the second letter, eyes brimming with tears as the reality of both its contents and the situation I find myself in hit me.

But then I hear another creak. Right behind me. _Feet_ behind me. I freeze, grip tightening on the handle of the knife I hold. I could never bring myself to use it, but I could at least threaten to.

There is a second creak, and I become aware of someone standing painfully close to me. The skin of my back tingles as I begin to sense them reaching out to me. Fingers brush against my shoulder.

I gulp and take my chances.

Around I turn, knife raised, ready to point it at whichever foul stranger lurked behind me. I hesistate when I see the stranger's face.

_Rob Campion._

He opens his mouth to speak, but before any words pass his lips he gasps in pain and drops to the floor. I stagger back into the dinner table.

Behind him stands Nevin, holding a small wooden chair from the corner of the sitting room aloft. Standing behind him, by a matter of feet, is George, eyes wide in shock.

I stand still, mumbling, eyes darting between the Campion man and the two who were seemingly my heroes.

The sirens grow louder, and I hear the voice of my brother Ian in the direction of the study.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Nevin pants.

_Was it over?_

_It was over._

And so into black I fall, but I find little rest there.

I pray silently to God that I would wake up in my own bed, snug and warm, ready to start another day as normal. No Campions, no horrid nightmare and no strangers about the house.

* * *

I do wake up in my own bed, but I am neither snug nor warm. And it is not a new day, but an old night. The Campions remained, the nightmare remained and now strangers of a different kind were about the house.

"Oh, thank God" Nevin sighs in relief, sitting up in the chair he perches on in the corner of the room. Emily looks up and rushes over to me. I'm slightly winded when she leaps on me, but I keep her close all the same.

"What's going on?" I stutter, shaken to my very core. Nevin stands and kneels down beside the bed.

"The police are here" he tells me softly, "Alex is downstairs being checked over by a medic, as is Rob Campion for that matter". My eyes widen.

"What is he still doing here?" I cry, "Why haven't they arrested him?". Nevin looks puzzled.

"He's the one who called the police" he says. I blink at him.

"No, he's a part of this" I say, "I know he is-". I'm cut off by the sight of two uniformed men carrying a stretcher past the open door of my bedroom. On it, secure and tucked in, is the Campion girl.

Nevin recognises my confusion. "She was unconcious in the bathroom" he tells me, "Rob knocked her out". What could she have done to make him knock her out? By the minute I became more and more convinced of his involvement.

"And still they haven't arrested him?" I scoff, words slightly jumbled as I continue to get over my shock. Again, Nevin appears confused.

"He apprehended her" my brother informs me, "I had to apologise for knocking him down. It seems he was only trying to reach out to you. He wasn't going to attack you". _I don't believe you_.

Out of fear of distressing Emily further, I change the subject. I notice George occupies another chair, placed much closer to the bed than Nevin's. On it he sleeps, looking remarkably peaceful despite the chaos around him.

"I offered to drive him to the station but he insisted he stay here" Nevin says, "He said he wanted to keep an eye on you". Emily reaches forward to wake him, but i gently stop her.

"Let him sleep" I tell her. I ask Nevin to put Emily to bed for me, reassuring him that I would remain upstairs and not try and find Rob downstairs whilst he was out of sight. _That was a lie_.

I take a blanket from my bed and drape it over George. Even if was summer, it was best he was kept cosy. Even in shock I could recognise that.

I make my way, somewhat dizzily, downstairs. A group of police officers bow their heads to me as I reach the bottom.

"Ms Nelson?" says one of them, "Shouldn't you be resting?". I ignore the question and ask my own.

"What exactly is going to happen now?" I ask.

"We'll take Miss Campion down to the cells" one of the officers informs me, "We'll keep one or two officers on the premises any way, to make sure your family feel safe". I nod. _It was a shame I hadn't received the guard I had been promised earlier_.

"And what of Rob Campion?" I ask, "Will you be taking him?". The men look between each other with the same expression Nevin had used.

"Mr Campion apprehended the culprit, Ms Nelson" I am told for the second time, "He was the one who called us. He's in the living room, should you want to-". I need no further prompting, and so into the sitting room I go.

The lights are now on. On the largest of the couches sits Ian, and beside him, _Rob_. I hear Nevin's hurried footsteps behind me. " _Liz_ " he says warily.

"Liz?" Ian asks me, dabbing at the small cut on the Campion man's forehead, "Are you alright?". I look at him briefly before looking to Rob.

"You followed her here" I say, "It was you I heard enter the study. How do I know it wasn't you who knocked Alex unconcious? How do I know you had no part in any of this?". Nevin places a comforting hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off.

"I did follow her here" Rob answers, "And I did go into the study. I went into the study looking for you". _And I was supposed to believe that he was on my side in this?_ It seemed all too convenient for me.

"I heard the car" Rob explains, "I couldn't be sure that Angie wouldn't wake again, so I had to be quiet. I'd already called the police by then". _Angie_. _The Campion girl_ fitted so much more. It was much more _impersonal_.

"Really?" I scoff. The man appears almost hurt. It was odd, given the attitude he had always had towards me. Was I really supposed to feel guilty about offending a man who had spent so much of his life offending me?

"Believe it or not, Ms Nelson, I do actuslly have a heart" Rob says sharply, "I knew your children were here. I wanted them to be safe". I stare at him long and hard.

Part of me insists that he's telling the truth, but I ignore it.

"How did you know she was coming here?" I question, "It seems odd, that you should mysteriously turn up here". Ian and Nevin simply stand by and watch. One looked incredibly angered by my attitude and the other simply looked bemused.

"I didn't mysteriously turn up" Rob corrects, "She broke into our home too. I saw her take off with my bike, so I followed her. I knew she was doing something awful, so I went after her". Ian takes the man's hand in his own and gives him a supportive smile.

"And thank God you did" he says. Rob looks to him most fondly. _He's right_ , the rebellious side of me screams, _you should thank him_. But still I refuse. I had further questions.

"And what of the threat?" I ask, sounding increasingly exasperated as my chest continues to pound, "Do you know if that was her, or was it really you?". Rob frowns at me.

"Threat?" he asks, "I don't know anything about a-".

" _Mother_?".

My eyes turn to the doorway of the dining room. There stands Alex, eerily pale but no less healthy. I forget my anger for a moment and take a step towards him. " _Alex_ " I breathe, overcome with relief.

The look in his eyes stops me from taking a single step further.

Alex was an endlessly sweet boy, despite his age. Always had looked to me with kind eyes. Never, even as a teenager, had he spoken back to me. His greatest crime at school was smuggling a kitten into his dormitory.

Yet now he looked at me with something I had never before seen in his eyes. _Rage_. His left hand is clenched tight into a fist, but in his other he holds two sheets of paper.

My eyes drift inevitably towards the end table in the corner, where the empty envelope lies. I should have known. I should have known to seize the letters from the dining table the moment I had spotted them. But the fear of the moment had gripped me. That, and the weight of that which the letters described.

"What is this?" Alex asks, raising the letters aloft so that I could see them clearly, "Tell me it isn't true".

I gulp and dare to take another step forward. The anger in those dark brown eyes of his deters me somewhat. "Alex-" I begin.

" _Tell me_ " the boy snaps. The room falls totally silent. In the hallway I hear the police officers talking, and on the landing I hear movement.

"I don't know what to say" I mumble, defeated. Alex stares at me. No, the _glares_ at me. All I can do is look to him tearfully, doing all I can to not collapse I onto the floor again. _The nightmare hadn't ended._

"I heard raised voices?" George speaks, entering the living room with a look of deep concern. I bow my head. How I wished he had remained upstairs. _Why did he have to be here? Hadn't I wished that he wouldn't linger?_

Alex turns his eyes to him, and in an instant rage is replaced by sadness. The silence continues, with George now stuck in the middle of whatever mess was unfolding in the sitting room.

To the ground the letters fall, and with a heavy sigh Alex storms from the room. I attempt to go after him, but find I don't have the energy. _God save me_.

"No!" I cry as George walks over to the doorway of the dining room and bends down to retrieve the letters. He hesitates for a moment, noting the fear building in my eyes. _You've given yourself away_. He knew I was terrified that he would read them. _And so read them he must_.

"What's going on?" Nevin asks aloud, understandably confused, "What is that George is reading? Why was Alex so upset by it?". I can feel him reach out to me but again I shake away his hand. I didn't deserve comfort. _I deserved as much suffering as was possible_.

I can only sob quietly to myself as George finishes the first letter and turns to the second. He appears to read it twice. And then again. And again and again until finally he finds it in him to look at me.

_How did he manage to look at me?_

"Why?" George asks quietly. His dark eyes were not filled with rage. They weren't even filled with sadness. Only _betrayal_. Deeper and deeper my heart sank. _Betrayal was the worst_.

"Why keep this from me?" George goes on, "Do I really have to read the words of a dead woman to find this out?". His own words are like daggers to me. Betrayal was definitely the worst.

_I deserved nothing._

"I always had suspicions. Even more so over the last few weeks" he says, "But why the hell wouldn't you just tell me?". There is shuffling in the hallway as the police officers begin to sense an argument brewing.

"I couldn't" I manage to say, "You know I couldn't". George shakes his head at me and observes the letters once more. And then he tears them. Once. Twice. Three times. Until all that is left is a small pile of torn paper at his feet.

The letters may have been gone, but I felt no great weight being lifted from my shoulders. On the contrary, I felt more and more guilty by the moment. I suspected the tingling feeling I felt on my back wasn't caused by Nevin's hand but by the crawling of my many sins.

"Are you really so selfish?" George says solemnly, every syllable cutting into me, "Are you really so focused on your own career that you wouldn't tell me?". He's right. I _know_ he's right, but I find I'm unable to speak.

"To think I've been in love with you for the past twenty-five years" he says angrily, "I was always hoping I'd find a way out of it. It seems I'm _free_ now". I look to my feet.

I wanted him to say something witty, or make a joke about Ed, or give me one of those old boyish grins. But nothing came. Only cold eyes. _He hates you_. Of course he hates me.

Just as Alex had abandoned me, so too does George. I watch him walk away. He talks to the officers gathered in the hallway. A few moments later, one of them nods to him and makes for the front door. "Watch how you go around that one corner" one of his colleagues warns, "There's an overturned tractor in the road". The officer nods, and away with George he goes.

Then I am faced with a room full of confused faces. I have neither the energy nor the will to explain it to them. Nevin stared at me, stunned. It is Rob Campion who appears least effected. My anger is reignited, and with tears in my eyes I turn on him once more.

"The threat" I hiss, "Tell me that was you". Ian gets to his feet and stands between us.

"Calm down" he tells me firmly. I ignore him.

"I got a threat, late in July" I say bitterly, "It can't have been the Campion girl. She was locked away". Rob shakes his head.

"So naturally it must be me?" he asks. The sarcasm in his voice irks me all the more.

"I saw you walking down the driveway" I tell him, "I must have been you that delivered it". Rob furrows his brows.

"July? I did deliver something to you in July" he says, "A dinner invitation". I laugh for the first time all evening. It was a genuinely amusing statement.

"From you?" I snort, "Am I supposed to believe that?". Again, Ian interjects.

"Yes, because it's true" he says, "I wrote an invitation asking you to dinner. Our mother scolded me for not speaking to you, so I thought I'd extend an olive branch. That afternoon, I sent Rob to deliver it to you". Rob nods from where he sits.

I retrieve the note that had been sent to me and hand it to him.

"It's our paper" he says, "But I did not write that threat. The letter I delivered to you was definitely an invitation". It is Nevin who interrupts this time.

"How do you know?" he asks. I tut at him for getting involved, but still Rob answers.

"Ian said he'd left the invitation on his desk before he went to work" he speaks, "All I had to do was put it in an envelope and deliver it. I fancied a walk, so I went myself-".

"Was the invitation folded when you found it on the desk?" Nevin questions, adopting the air of one of the officers who lingered in the hallway.

"It might have been" Rob answers.

"And didn't you mention that you'd had your house broken into?".

"That was only recently" I pipe up, eyes still angrily fixed on Rob. _Give in_ , my conscience told me, _just give in_. George had deserted me, and so had Alex. One of the great issues that plagued me had been resolved, though very messily. I was determined that the other be resolved tonight.

"It happened in July too" Ian says, frowning as the reality of the situation began to hit him. I understood it too, but still I maintained my anger in Rob.

"Was anything stolen?" Nevin continued his interrogation, "On either occasion?". Both Ian and Rob shake their heads.

"I know you were involved" I insist, "I _know_ it". Nevin looks at me as though I'm mad. _You probably are_. Finally, Rob snaps.

"Why are you so keen to find me responsible for all of this?" he roars, "What exactly have I done to you that makes you hate me so much?". I scoff.

"I hate you as you hate me" I fight back, "You've always hated me. Ever since 2005-".

"When I stood against you in an _election_?" Rob cries in disbelief, "In protest of a war that you started? A war that killed my brother?".

I could still remember how he had looked at me with pure and unadulterated contempt in the town hall on that night in 2005. I could still remember how close I had come to defeat. I could still remember every single word of the speech he had given to the assembled crowd, and how they had inspired me to finally apologise for my role in starting the war.

It was all so long ago, but still it lived in my memory. Like this night, it would haunt me.

"You hate me for the same reason that your sister does" I snap, backing away from the Campion man slightly.

"My sister is _ill_ " Rob yells, appearing entirely exasperated, "She loved our brother just as much as I did. I got over it and fought to change things in another way. _She couldn't_ ".

I fall quiet now, quite out of breath. My chest ached a lot by now, and the events of the last ten minutes or so had exhausted me. I would need a very large whisky after this.

"I think Osborne is right you know" Ian says quietly, fixing me with an excruciatingly cold stare, "You're selfish. Completely and utterly selfish".

He brushes past me and leaves the sitting room. Rob follows suit. And the moment I hear the front door close, I fall to the floor. I'm not allowed to fade into shadow this time. Instead, I am forced to wait out my pain.

"I bet the bastard's taken off with _my_ car" Nevin chuckles to himself, comforting me as best he could. I hear the sound of gravel crunching under moving tyres outside. Completely and utterly selfish.

"Your car is better than mine" I manage to joke, tears singing my cheeks.

"I'm richer than you" Nevin replies, holding me close, "Though the brakes have been useless lately". I try and think of a witty response, but nothing comes.

Only more tears, and more pain. Nevin's comforting did little to spare me either, but it was good to know that I hadn't gravely offended him in any way. No doubt his opinion of me was considerably lower than it had been, but at least he didn't _hate_ me.

I remain on the floor of the sitting room, safe but haunted in my brother's arms, for quite some time. The house is relatively quiet, but my thoughts threaten to deafen. My conscience screams with fury.

And had I listened just a little closer, and even attempted to compose myself, I might have heard the sound of a crash in the distance.


	92. Syria.

**30th August, 2013.**

**House of Commons, London.**

At times, I'd thought the summer recess was my chance at peace. At other times, long ago, I had considered Westminster a well-needed distraction from my pain. I now found myself hovering agonisingly between the two.

I arrive as I'm instructed on the morning of the 30th, amongst a number of slightly disgruntled colleagues who had been forced to cut their holidays slight short in order to attend today's emergency session.

 _Syria_. Of all the heavy, depressing subjects to be debating, it had to be _Syria_. The day was devoted to  conversation of it, and whether or not action against President Assad was justified. Where I stood on the matter, I did not know. My mind was entirely lost.

As I sit alone in my office, curtains drawn, I find myself falling back to that night.

_The sound of the police officers in the hallway dashing out of the house and down the drive, shouting in alarm._

_The curiosity and fear that had driven me to pursue them down the lane, with Nevin in tow._

_The utter terror I had felt when faced with the sight of a car in flames._

_The pure numbness I had felt when two men were lifted into ambulances, one wrapped tightly with paramedics swarming him, the other covered completely with a thick grey blanket._

_"You're selfish. Completely and utterly selfish"_. I hated the fact that they were his last words to me, perhaps his last words to any one. I hated myself for provoking them.

I wanted very much for my job to provide me with some kind of distraction. I wouldn't stay at home pouring my heart out, I'd do something useful. Crying wouldn't help the poor people of Syria.

Yet for as much as I may wish it, no such distraction comes. Colleagues question gently why I had decided to turn up so soon after it all, but I shrug away their concerns.

"I'm afraid I don't know what to say" Charles says quietly, looking across the desk at me with sad eyes, "Liz, I-". I pull one of my folders from the shelf behind me and grab my pen. Do something useful.

"You don't need to say anything" I say, perhaps too shortly, keen to appear as though I was still very much capable of performing my usual duties.

"Will you be attending the vote tonight?" Charles asks, wisely changing tact, "You know it'll be a whipped vote". It had already been made clear to the people of my party that the government would not be getting any support from the opposition. Ed was against the idea, and so off to the No lobby we would go.

"Everyone accepts that deposing Assad is not our top priority at the moment" I say, continuing to scribble notes down for later meetings, "But we can't let him get away with what is literally murder". Charles thinks to himself quietly.

"I fear taking action against Assad will give the impression we've forgotten who the real enemy is" Charles responds.

"There is more than one enemy in this particular situation" I say, tapping my pen on the desk thoughtfully, "Unless a person who threatens their own people with chemical weapons doesn't constitute an enemy". Charles raises an eyebrow. I was probably being far too sharp with him, but I struggled to control myself.

"Of course Assad is an enemy" Charles says. He opens his mouth to continue but I, rather rudely, cut him off.

"And you want him gone, yes?" I ask.

"Yes, but-" Charles attempts.

"You want it made clear to him that his actions are unacceptable, yes?" I add. Again Charled agrees.

"Then I suppose I'll see you in the Aye lobby later this evening" I mutter to myself, eyes turning back to my work. I'm tempted to ask Charles to leave. I wanted him to go before I got too irritable.

"You're a member of the Shadow Cabinet" my old friend points out, "You can't rebel against party lines". I suddenly become aware of myself. I hadn't previously thought that I had made my mind up about the issue, yet already I seemed to be willing to take the leap and resign to support it.

"I'll talk to Ed" I say, keen to backtrack slightly. Charles appears unconvinced.

"He won't give you a free vote" he says, "You know that". I glance up at him momentarily.

I suddenly become aware of myself. Work did distract me. Except the distraction wasn't a jolly one, and I find myself becoming sad again when I remember why I needed the distraction in the first place.

"Well, I think I'll head down to the bar" Charles says, getting to his feet. I shut the file in front of me and follow suit. "Are you joining me?" Charles asks hopefully. I shake my head.

"No" I tell him, "But I'm heading in that direction". Before I except the office I take a quick look in the small mirror mounted on the wall. I wanted to make sure my eyes didn't look too red, that my torment wasn't too obvious.

I hated how delicate my colleagues attempted to be as I passed them by in the corridor. "Hello, Liz" they would say quietly, solemnly, as though fearing I would burst into tears simply by talking to me. Others appeared more cautious, unsure of what words of comfort they could hope to offer me. Nothing would do, no matter what they tried.

"It certainly looks as though the chamber is going to be packed tonight" Charles observes as we pass through the lobby. I intended to speak to Ed and make my thoughts known. They would no doubt be unwelcome, but still they would come.

"I didn't think he could get any paler" my friend goes on, chuckling under his breath, "He's translucent". I look to the person he so unflatteringly describes. The man does indeed look translucent. His skin is as white as his eyes are disappointed. _Betrayal was the worst_. I'm grateful that I don't have to look at them for too long, as he turns his back when he spots me. _He hates me_.

"You know" I say, clearing my throat, "I think I will join you for that drink after all."

* * *

The terrace of parliament provided me with some much-needed fresh air. The afternoon had set in, and over the Thames the sun began to drop. Peers and MPs alike sipped their pints and their bottles of wine, chatting animatedly about that oh-so jolly topic of Syria.

"I quite admire you, you know" Charles sighs to himself, leaning back in his seat as he puffs on a cigarette, "You're really very strong". I leant against the wall encircling the terrace and sigh as I observe the hectic goings on in the city before me.

"I don't think I deserve admiration" I reply, "I've never done anything worthy of such a thing". I sounded like a self-pitying, pathetic flake of a person, but I didn't care. I was truly at my lowest ebb.

"Don't be silly" Charles tuts at me, "I don't think I'd be able to carry on working so soon after-". His voice trails off. He is struck by the same caution that plagues every one else.

"Just say it, Charles" I snap, voice trembling ever so slightly despite my resolve, "My brother is dead."

 _"You're selfish. Completely and utterly selfish"_. I prayed that there be a way for me to try that awful night again. It was agonising to know that the last words Ian had ever spoken to me were so laced with bitterness.

"And George despises me" I add, yet another heavy sigh passing my lips, "Not that I blame him". Again, Charles disagrees. He gets to his feet, casting his cigarette down into the ash tray, and joins me by the wall.

"I think he's a _bastard_ , to be honest" Charles admits with a chuckle, "But a bastard with a heart". I arch an eyebrow at him. I had forgotten how poetic he could be.

"He's annoyed, naturally. And I doubt you'll be getting a Christmas card this year" he goes on, "But he'll come round. I may not like the bugger, but he does at least care for you as much as I do". _Not any more_. I wouldn't blame him if he never spoke to me again. _I wouldn't speak to me_.

Charles reaches into his pocket and withdraws a near-empty box of cigarettes. He offers one of the few remaining to me. My chest would not forgive me, but I felt it was excusable. "I suppose I'll stay here for a while" I say, "I need to get my thoughts together."

"And then what?" Charles asks. I was not looking forward to the task, but I felt it was necessary.

"Then I'll speak to Ed." 

* * *

The corridors surrounding the leader's office were incredibly busy, with advisers and the occasional journalist dashing about the place. As I walk by I spot Ed Balls, visible through the open door of his office, muttering to himself angrily. He curses the name of the man next door. Just as Ed had chosen to alienate me, he kept his right-hand man on the sidelines.

Lightly, I knock on his office door. I'm tempted to turn back and rejoin Charles when that woman opens it. His horrid Chief of Staff, with her air of total superiority and her righteous manner. I prayed to God that I never appeared so pompous.

"Ms Nelson?" she asks, looking me up and down, "Can I help you?".

"No, you can't" I reply, "But your boss can". I brush past her before she can challenge me and step inside. Various aides are dotted about the corners of the room, all performing their own functions with great haste. It was as though Jonathan had been cloned.

"Liz?" I hear Ed's voice. He sits behind his desk, much grander and larger than mine, some feet away. He makes no attempt to get up, but does invite me to take the seat opposite him.

"I meant to call you" he says as I approach, "I'm ever so sorry, Liz". I gulp when I notice the genuine sadness in his eyes. Even if he did insist on marginalising me, it was good to know that he did still care for me in some respect.

"Thank you" I reply, "Though that's not why I've come". Ed sits back in his chair and watches me, a cautious look in his eye. "If you've come to try and change my mind about Syria" he says, "You shouldn't bother". He already sounded slightly irked. I can feel that horrid woman watching me from behind but I ignore her.

"I don't want to change your mind" I say, "I only wish you'd allow this to be a _free vote_ ". Ed raises his eyebrows at me.

"You're actually in _favour_ of it?" he scoffs, almost amused, "I'd have thought that you, of all people, would be against it". _Me of all people_. Now I was beginning to feel irritable. I had intended to be entirely civil and calm during my visit, but there was something about Ed's tone that I didn't appreciate.

"What do you mean?" I ask. I had a good idea of what he was referring to, but I wanted to see if he was brave enough to talk about it plainly.

"Iraq wasn't a massive success, was it?" Ed reminds me. I was still paying for Iraq ten years later. Arguably, I would never have become involved with the Campions had I not been a part of the invasion all those years ago. I had apologised for my errors, but I still maintained that the operation wasn't a complete disaster.

"You were very much in favour of it at the time" I'm keen to remind my leader. Ed appears offended by the truth. Perhaps I ought to remind him of the less than sensible suggestions he provided after the financial crash when he next raises the issue of the deficit.

"I understand the consequences of it now" Ed informs me, "I know what a lack of planning costs". Did he think me so ineffectual a Defence Secretary? He had been greatly supportive of me at the time.

"So President Assad should be allowed to use chemical weapons on his own people?" I question. Ed shakes his head to me and gets to his feet. I watch him as he moves to fetch a drink of water from a jug nearby.

"Don't try and accuse me of some how being pro-Assad" he argues, "Even if the reports of him threatening to use chemical weapons are true, I don't think taking military action against him when greater enemies require our attention is wise". _There should not have to be reports of chemical weapons being used_. The very mention of them in regard to President Assad was evidence enough for me. Any leader who was capable to doing such a thing to his own people could not be trusted.

"And what if the vote this evening fails, and in a month's time we hear of masses of people being killed upon orders from Assad?" I fight, "Will you still not recognise him as the greater enemy?". Ed sips his water and glances over to that horrid woman. I could tell she was dying to get involved.

"The public haven't warmed to the idea, either" Ed says, changing tact, "Would it be right for me to ignore their reservations? Your brother, what would he have said?". I freeze, mouth inadvertently dropping open slightly. Even that horrid woman appears to shudder.

"Don't you dare" I snarl at him, " _Don't you dare_ ". Ed opens his mouth to reply but shuts it quickly. He sets water down and walks back to his seat. Several moments of silence pass as I fume quietly, and Ed stews in his own shame. "Your brother, what would he have said?". I was beyond calm now.

"Look, it's clear that you and I differ on this issue" Ed says, quieter now, "But I'm afraid I won't give in. I can't let this be a free vote, Liz".

"And I'm afraid I don't agree" I reply fiercely. Anger flashes in Ed's eyes to a degree that I had never seen before. Anger did not look good on him. I am reminded of how much I missed my Ed.

"That's the problem" my leader snaps, "You never do agree with me". I find myself slightly taken aback by his outburst. I'm not given a chance to respond, not that I was able to in a coherent fashion.

"From the moment I took this job, you've doubted me" Ed says frustratedly, "You're my friend, Liz, but for the love of God show me that you actually have _some_ faith in me". I can only stare at him. I had known that his team didn't trust me. I had known that it was his Chief of Staff in particular disliked me, that she suspected me of being some kind of dissenter.

"You know I support you" I reply, trying to calm myself before my chest began to ache again, "If you feel I'm criticising you too much, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to bite my tongue. I never have". I'm further stunned when Ed hits his desk in irritation. He was almost frightening. I had _never_ found Ed frightening before.

"You're not with Tony and Gordon any more" he reminds me sharply, "You're not waltzing about Whitehall with a trail of ministers behind you any more. The sooner you realise New Labour is dead, the better". I had long since abandoned hope of restoring New Labour to what it had once been. I sometimes suspected whether it had died before 2010. But a mother never stopped caring for her child even after death.

"This has nothing to do with New Labour" I protest regardless, "God knows I've made mistakes since I entered this place, but rarely have I been a dissenter. I speak my mind, Ed. And that's precisely why I ask that you give me a free vote". I wanted to avoid an argument about the general direction of the party, or I might never escape the office. We'd miss the vote if we weren't careful.

"I'm not giving you a free vote. Why don't you understand that?" Ed grumbles, "I'm very sorry that its come to this, Liz". I hesitate before I speak again. He wears a grave expression now, rather like that of an executioner before wielding the axe.

"What do you mean?" I ask cautiously.

"I can't let this carry on" Ed speaks decisively, "Liz, I'm relieving you of your duties at Shadow Cabinet". I blink at him. I hadn't exactly enjoyed my role, neither _fucking_ Transport nor the pathetic junior Foreign Affairs job, but still my heart began to sink.

"I'm sorry?" I ponder aloud, staring at my old friend with a stupidly perplexed expression. Ed stares at me long and hard, sadness glinting in his eye.

"I'm sacking you, Liz" he says bluntly, "I won't keep you at Shadow Cabinet". My anger subsides, and is instead replaced with sadness. Complete and utter sadness. _Sacked_. Part of me wanted to be glad that I was freed from my terrible brief, but my thoughts were consumed by that word. _Sacked_.

Never had I been sacked before. Yet here I sat, banished from the front bench and forced to live out whatever remained of my career on the backbenches.

Silently, and with growing pain in my chest, I stand. That horrid woman, the ever present Chief of Staff, watches me pitifully as I make for the door of the office. Other advisers in the room look to me sadly. I can't help but wonder why.

My brother was dead. His partner lay wounded in hospital. My family were marred with grief. My son refused to speak to me. George now despised me. I was still aware of The Telegraph's extensive arsenal against me. And now I had been removed from the front bench on the eve of one of the biggest votes of the year.

Perhaps I did deserve some pity. But not much. Much of that which had happened led to me. My mistakes had caused most of it. My temper, my selfishness, my cowardice. The flaws in my personality that I had always been too proud to recognise had bitten me where it hurt most.

 _Sacked_. Still it bounced about my head. I find myself turning back in Ed's direction the more I think about it.

"Let me resign" I say, "If not for my honour, the image of the party". It wouldn't look good if it was reported that I had been sacked on the eve of such an important vote. It indicated disagreement, but not one that was civil enough for me to leave Shadow Cabinet quietly and of my own accord. It suggested there was a much deeper problem within the party.

Ed had angered me a great deal today, but I still didn't want him poorly represented by the press. I could tell Charles and Gordon and the others of my dismissal. I was content for the papers to be left in the dark.

"Yes. Yes, of course" Ed nods, voice barely above a whisper. He seemed as saddened as I was.

I'm sure I hear him call my name as I make my way back down the corridor. But I ignore him. I ignore every one. Many attempt to talk with me, either to offer their condolences or to ask for my opinion on Syria. I was not prepared to deal with either, at the present moment.

Parliament had not provided me with solace after all. Both at home and at work I was plagued with misfortune.

Misfortune I was responsible for.

* * *

The backbenches were notably colder and less comfortable than those at the front of the chamber. I didn't sit on them, but perch, feeling most out of place. I didn't quite know how to position myself. _It's just a seat_ , I'm keen to remind myself, but still I struggle.

The morning after that fateful vote on Syria, the Prime Minister addresses the house from the dispatch box. It had been a defeat for the government, and for me, and so my cousin had risen to concede on the matter. I was disappointed, yes, but no less solid in my opinion.

"What do you think of the view?" Gordon attempts to joke from beside me, "At least you won't have the Tories pointing at you from here". I give him a weak smile.

I gasp just as Ed gets to his feet to respond. Gordon frowns at me. I rub my chest as a sharp pain quivers through it. "I thought you were gasping at the sight of him for a moment there" Gordon continues to chuckle, "He's a good man, you know that". I still believed that _my_ Ed was in there somewhere.

"I do feel the House made the right decision yesterday" I hear him speak, not used to hearing his voice from a distance, "And I'm proud that Labour opposed the motion". _Am I now not Labour?_ As had been made clear to me last night, the Labour I believed in no longer existed. I considered following Gordon's example and announcing that I'd be standing down at the next election.

The past three years had been both stressful and hopeless. It would be a miracle if I survived the remaining two. _Henley deserved better_.

Again, I find myself trying to soothe my aching heart. I had taken my medication and got plenty of sleep. Yet still I was pained. It had been worse since the incident at the house on the 20th. "Are you alright?" Gordon asks, noticing the gradual paling of my face. I gulp.

"I think I just need some fresh air" I nod. Politely, I excuse myself and squeeze past my nearest colleagues. Down the steps towards the floor of the chamber I walk, glancing only briefly in the direction of the front bench as I do so. I catch Andy's eye and manage a smile for him. I'm glad he returns it. He still liked me, even if Ed didn't. He looks as though he's about to leap from his own seat and pursue me, but I don't stick around to find out.

I am hit by a wave of cold air as I leave the chamber. The lobby was relatively empty, with most members packed into the Commons to witness the aftermath of yesterday's vote.

Danny Alexander discussed something in a corner with one of his coalition partners, and Liam Fox leaned against a wall tapping away at his phone.

I take in my surroundings and find they calm me. The aching in my chest subsides when I think about the many memories I had of this place.

Walking through the lobby for first time as an MP with John Smith by my side, ignoring the glaring of a group of nearby Tories. Making my maiden speech in the Commons with Peter by my side. Attending my first Shadow Cabinet meeting. Taking my place on the government benches for the first time in 1997. Standing in for Gordon for the spending review. Acting as Leader of the Opposition. _Debating David_.

So much had happened. There was much that I would miss, but I saw little hope in the future. I had quite forgotten just how lucky I had been in previous years. I had climbed as many rungs on the ladder as I could. _Was it really time to go?_

"Liz?" I hear Andy speak. I turn to face him and smile. I had hoped that I would see him before the day was done. I needed a friendly face.

"Sorry, it's just I saw you looked unwell" Andy says, "Ed told us about what happened. I'm sorry to see you go. We all are". My smile weakens still but I attempt to stick with it. It hadn't taken me long to write my resignation letter. I wondered whether I had been subconsciously drafting it for quite some time.

"Don't say you're alright" Andy says, stealing the words from my mouth, "Because you're not alright".

"Nonsense" I reply, "Tea is what I need. Would you care for a cup?". It was too early to retreat to the bar, and I knew smoking would do nothing for my heart. Tea would do nothing for my depression, but it would at least relax me.

"Tea?" Andy asks, brightening up at the prospect.

"Tea" I confirm. I turn and take a step forward to begin my journey out of the lobby and into my office.

But suddenly, as though someone had snatched the sun from the sky, I find myself consumed by black. I can't see anything and I can't hear anything.

I feel as though I'm asleep, but I'm not aware of _going_ to sleep. I don't know whether my eyes are open or closed. I don't know where I am.

There is simply nothing. And I find it terrifies me. I try, I know not how, to listen out for something. A voice, the sound of footsteps, a bird tweeting, _anything_.

My left side warms, and my head begins to feel lighter, as though someone was holding me, _supporting_ me. I feel something around my neck being loosened, and a strange sensation in my chest.

I had been hoping for peace, but this was far from what I had intended. I think hard and try to imagine what the scene looks like from the Heavens.

Andy supports me whilst Liam Fox, no longer dabbling on his phone, puts his knowledge as a Doctor to practice. Danny Alexander calls for an ambulance whilst others who I forget the names of watch at a distance.

At a time when my family were still recovering from the loss of one Nelson, it seemed they would now be mourning the loss of another. _I'm going to die_. I'm sure if it now. The empty space around me begins to make sense.

Various faces greet me in my last moments. I worry for my mother, and for Nevin, and for Helena and Fraser. And most especially for Alex and Emily. I pray that they're all looked after.

 _I'm dead_.

I wait for some angelic figure to emerge and decide my fate, but no such figure comes. Instead I am consigned only to darkness.


	93. Memory.

**8th March, 2014.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I had come to know every tree and shrub and flower in my garden with the upmost detail. I'd get started each blade of grass on the lawn if I remained in my chair long enough. I stayed in it most days, simply staring out onto that oh-so familiar garden. I never felt like doing anything else.

If I wasn't gazing aimlessly outside, I was reading a book, or gently practicing on the piano. Sometimes I'd listen to an Elvis record with a bottle of whisky, and on other occasions I would simply sit in the dark, stewing in my own thoughts. They were mostly negative these days. My face felt almost frozen. I'd quite forgotten what smiling was.

Night after night, I'm revisited by the memory of that awful evening in August 2013. And then the memories of the following week emerge, and I find myself back in the lobby of the House of Commons. I hadn't been to the Commons for months now. I kept my seat, and carried on with constituency work at home, but I hadn't set foot in that chamber for far too long.

It had initially been reported that I had _died_. In clinical terms, I had. For several minutes, I was later told, I lay totally still, face alarmingly blue. I couldn't recall any of it now. My memory was poor. I had been told that I was lucky to have not developed severe brain damage, and even luckier to have survived at all. Liam Fox had been warmly thanked for his part in saving me, naturally.

I was basically dead now, any way. I didn't seem to do anything. I didn't _want_ to do anything. I got through the day, and then the next, and so on. I had forgotten all sense of purpose. I tried to do my work as an MP as best I could, but I wasn't as committed as I should be.

"I can help you with your case work, if you'd like" Alex had offered once. Ah, _Alex_. He had since started to talk to me again, albeit slightly hesitantly at first. _I had forgotten his name when I first woke up_.

I can remember waking in a hospital, dazed and confused but too weak to act on either feeling, and being told that I had been in a coma for two weeks.

Those two weeks had been most strange. My memory of them was slightly hazy by now, but I could recall a number of flashbacks. Various scenes from the past had come back to haunt me. Some I had enjoyed, but others not so much.

There was 1986.

_I was fourteen, and still relatively new to England. For a year we had lived in Oxfordshire, simply another well-off family intent on seclusion themselves in the hills. Since our move, our most regular guests had become the Camerons, in particular their second eldest son, an Oxford student by the name of David._

_"You must join us when next she visits" I hear my father speak. I knew precisely who it was they were talking about. Another irritating figure by the name of Thatcher. "I'd imagine she's too busy for starry-eyed admirers such as myself" my cousin replies. My habit of rolling my eyes on a regular basis started early._

_"Send a few thousand her way and I'm sure she'll given you a glance" I mutter under my breath, conceding defeat in my mission. A chair creaks from within, catching my attention. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" he says politely. Before I can slink away, the study door opens, and out steps David, wispy brown hair seemingly thickening with every passing minute. His cold blue eyes fix on my minute form instantly._

_Casting a wary glance back into the study, he steps out into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. "I thought I heard you creeping about" he says accusingly. "This is my home" I argue, "I'm entitled to"._

_"I can't see what you'll achieve by listening in" David dismisses, crossing his arms. I stand my ground. I was particularly short for my age, and weighed barely anything. My cousin towered over me, yet he failed to intimidate me in any way. "Don't begrudge me curiosity" I smile sweetly._

_"Certainly not" he replies coldly, "But I won't appreciate eavesdropping."_

And then there had been 1987.

_Through crowds of people I had squeezed, all of them considerably older than I. I kept onto my aunt's hand nervously. I was filled with dread when she stopped and bent down to me to tell me that she was going ahead to check for spare seats in the conference hall._

_Fifteen years old, and left alone at my very first Labour Party conference. The party's election defeat earlier in the year had disappointed me greatly. Mrs Thatcher frustrated me enormously. She simply wouldn't budge._

_"Excuse me, Miss" a soft voice speaks, "You seem quite lost". His gentle Scottish accent reassures me, and I feel quite star-struck when I realise who it is._

_"Oh" was all I could manage in response, gazing up at the incredible figure before me, "I was waiting for my Aunt". The man smiles kindly and extends a hand._

_"John Smith" he introduces himself. Hesitantly, as though doubting whether I was worthy of such attention. I clear my throat and reply. "Elizabeth Nelson" I say._

_"I'm very glad to see one so young here" Mr Smith says, "Perhaps we'll make a prime minister out of you". I giggle. Various other members stop and look at him, no doubt wondering why such a prominent figure was wasting his time on such a small girl._

_"Oh no, sir" I respond, "I've no interest in being prime minister". Mr Smith appeared almost disappointed. It was flattery I did not deserve at such a tender age, but I lapped it up all the same._

_"And MP then?" Mr Smith asks. I glance past him to see my aunt waving frantically. I saw no great rush for a seat now that I had been lucky enough to speak to the man himself face to face. It was a miracle I had been able to speak coherently. Everyone dreams of meeting their heroes._

_"Yes, alright" I smile, beaming up at Mr Smith most fondly, "And MP then."_

And so I rolled into 1988.

_Together I had been thrown in with this George fellow, but I found I did not mind in the slightest. Initially he had appeared awkward and shy, but now he was a picture of confidence. We had discussed a number of weighty topics whilst our parents had chatted away idly amongst their ludicrously rich friends about the most irrelevant subjects possible. Posh parties were often the same, but at least I had made a new friend on this occasion._

_"Are you staying in London for a while?" the boy asks me._

_"No, sadly" I shake my head, "I need to return to Oxfordshire for school". George looks quite saddened. I glance over my shoulder and see my parents being helped into their coats. Nevin chatted up some buxom blonde in the corner, and Helena continued to drool over another of her prized soldiers._

_"You could visit, if you'd like" I offer, noting the disappointment on my new friend's face, "I think you'd like Oxfordshire". George's smile returns in an instant. I imagined the hills would be a welcome change after a lifetime in London._

_"I certainly hope so" he says, "I plan on studying there when I'm finished at college". Our ambitions were similar, it seemed, which eased our new found friendship all the more._

_"You're welcome to visit whenever you like" I go on, keen to make it known that he was welcome to save me from my boredom back at home, "You can visit and I can give you a lecture on how bad Thatcher's policies are". George chuckles lightly and fixes me with soft eyes. I'm forced to snap my fingers in front of them to get him to wake up._

_"What is it?" I ask. George ruffles his curls and looks to his feet with tinted cheeks. "Nothing" he mumbles, "I just think you're really cool."_

Some of the memories that I was reminded of during my long sleep seemed significant, but others didn't. If there was a reason for them, I couldn't find it.

1990 was very much like that.

_"You look like a complete prick". My mother would no doubt have cussed me for my bluntness if she were present, but thankfully she wasn't. I suspected she would disapprove too. There were many ways in which a young man might entertain himself at Oxford. He could join the Union and fight his corner, or chair a society, he could actually study._

_Instead, I am met by the sight of a nineteen year old dressed in a waistcoat and bow tie that would not look out of place in the precious century. "You're supposed to say 'George, you look so handsome!'" the boy says, sizing himself up in the mirror. I roll my eyes from where I sit on the bottom of his bed._

_"But that would be a lie" I reply, "Why can't you do something normal?". George checks his cufflinks and snorts at me._

_"Don't try and induct me into the Labour Society again" he warns, "I'm not spending my evenings with socialists". You've spent plenty of evenings with me, I think to myself. What was wrong with the Labour Society, any way? I chaired it. It had to be good._

_"Why not? None of them would call you an oik" I say. George narrows his eyes at me most suddenly. I begin wonder whether I've struck a nerve when he begins to slouch slightly. "Join the History Society" I suggest, "You love History". George does not look convinced._

_"I spend all day talking about History" he tells me, "I want to do something interesting in my spare time, something exciting". I can't help but feel somewhat offended. I didn't expect him to remain by my side constantly, but I wanted him to actually value my company._

_"So why not spend time with the friends who actually give a shit about you?" I challenge, well aware of how his Bullingdon so-called 'brothers' treated him, "Am I really that boring?". Finally, George manages to tear himself away from the mirror._

_"Perhaps you're right" he sighs, sitting down beside me, "I'm not likely to do any better than you, so I'd best try not to offend you". He laughs as I punch him lightly on the arm._

_"Will you take that stupid jacket off?" I ask, observing the article of clothing with a great deal of disapproval, "You look so unbearably pretentious". George does as he is told and so onto the floor it slumps._

_"That, and any other article of clothing you want me to remove" he winks. I stare at him for a second before kicking him off the bed and tutting at him as he lies by my feet._

_"With or without the jacket" I tell him, "You're still a prick."_

Perhaps these memories were not supposed to be solely significant. Perhaps, in its confusion, my mind had selected the memories that most made me smile. Happy times, to relieve my suffering.

That theory is blown apart, however, when I begin to recall the waning months of 1994, when the stupid jackets and awful Oxford societies were far behind me.

_I wondered how many euphemisms for the word 'contraceptive' my mother could conjure up. I'd be amused by her efforts to avoid the word, had I not felt so awful._

_She continued to ramble away to herself as he helped me to pack my things together at my London flat. It had suited me fine when I was alone. As my mother had keenly pointed out to me, it was no place for a baby._

_"You're Catholic" I protest, "You're no great believer in-". My mother holds her hand up to stop me._

_"Don't say the word" she implores, "You mustn't think I'm attacking you, darling. I'm worried about you". I worried too. I had always wanted children, but never so young. I wondered whether it was fair of me to bring a child into a life that was so hectic._

_"And you're sure it's this Lionel Barber chap's?" my mother asks me, remarkably politely. I almost drop the books I'm carrying. "Yes" I tell her, concerned for her opinion of me, "Who else might it be?"._

_I had told her the slight untruth that I had been properly dating Lionel since September. She was most pleased with him when he offered to marry me. "Well, I don't know" my mother sighs, "Lord knows what your sort get up to at these conferences". This time, the books do tumble from my grasp._

_"Be careful, be careful!" my mother gushes, lifting me to my feet as I kneel down to collect them, "Take it steady, darling". I'm forced to watch her retrieve the books one by one. She even insists on making me a cup of tea before I'm allowed to stand again._

It all ended there. I saw glimpses of the pure joy of 1997 and the comparative misery of 2010 in a matter of seconds, before awaking in a white room with Alex holding my hand and a kind nurse watching me closely.

I had said very little when I first opened my eyes again. I said very little now. Many attempts were made to coax me into long conversation, but I found I had very little to say. As was demonstrated at the present moment...

"It's a pity you didn't come with me today" Nevin says, perching down on the seat nearest my own, "The gravestone went up today. It thought it looked most appropriate". He sips at his tea and waits for a reaction.

"Gravestone?" I ask, frowning at him. Nevin pales. _You've forgotten something again_. I found it difficult not to pinch myself whenever that happened. Even seven months on, my brain continued to struggle.

"Yes. Ian's gravestone" Nevin tells me, "The ground is hard enough for it to be placed now". He speaks to me as though I'm a child. That made me feel no better.

"Is there anything else I've forgotten?" I ask impatiently, "Any weddings I'm due to attend?". Nevin blinks. _Oh_.

"Yes" my brother replies, " _Mine_ ". I tut and rest my head against the back of my chair. My body was awake, but my mind was still slightly asleep. I could faintly remember Nevin coming to me, smiling from ear to ear, and telling me that he was engaged again. _Claire_ was the name of his intended, a former employee of the local parish council. I had apparently met her before, but I could no longer see her face.

"When is this to happen, then?" I ask with a sigh. I sit ready with pen and paper. Nevin finds it most amusing.

"The 10th of April" he tells me, "Her name is Claire. She's thirty-two and she's currently training to be a teacher". I'm grateful for the description. I didn't want Claire to know that I had forgotten her when next we met.

"And you're how old, again?" I ask my brother. I speak with a joking tone, but secretly hope that he will tell me his age anyway. _I'd forgotten that too_.

"Forty-four" Nevin reminds me patiently. I nod. His depression had aged him most. On his brow he sported numerous wrinkles, and his hair was streaked with grey. He'd been stripped of his part in the family business, but took his role as a local councillor in his stride. The change in him pleased me, even if I couldn't remember his birthday any more.

It's then I hesitate. When was _my_ birthday? I know the question would prompt laughter, but I was genuinely unsure of the correct answer. I had an inkling it was in April, but the date now escaped me. _You're a mess_.

"And how old am I?" I question quietly. Nevin sets his tea cup down in its saucer and stares at me blankly. At least he wasn't laughing.

Within seconds, I'm crying. I break down suddenly, a wave of emotion I had not felt coming crashing over me without warning. _You're definitely a mess_.

"I'm sorry" I sob, keen to compose myself, "This seems to happen a lot lately. I don't know what's wrong with me".

"You spend too much time on your own" my brother says, politely passing me a handkerchief, "You should let yourself be lonely, especially after what happened". Nevin had only called around by chance. I hadn't invited him. I invited very few people here these days. I felt I was probably better off sitting alone.

"Well, Alex is busy at university. Emily stays with her father in London" I sniff, quite embarrassed to have broken down in the company of another, "Most are busy with their own lives. There's little point wasting time on me". Nevin gives me a pitying glance before lowering his eyes and biting his lip.

He wanted to say something. I had got the impression when he first arrived that he had been meaning to ask me something, but held his tongue, as though afraid of my reaction. I had a sneaking suspicion it was something to do with work.

"When will you go back to the Commons?" he blurts. And there it is. I don't reply, but instead sit silently, eyes looking at nothing in particular in the garden. Nevin waits.

"You can't just sit here and do case work for the rest of your career" he tells me firmly, "You need to get back in that chamber and start fighting your corner again. Have you seen the papers recently?". He reaches into his bag and withdraws a slightly creased copy of The Daily Mail.

I skim over the front page as it is laid upon my lap. The largest of the headlines reports on the latest problems regarding Scotland. A referendum was approaching, and the press were quite obsessed with it already. Alongside the article, however, is a smaller chunk of writing reporting on the latest opinion polling.

"Your lot will lose the next election if they're not careful" Nevin sighs, "Miliband is useless". Our cousin wasn't much good either. Then again, David had at least done more than send me a slightly cheap card saying 'Get Well Soon!' whilst I was in hospital. He'd actually bothered to visit me. I'd think better of Ed when I'd calmed down.

"Start writing your column again. Accept interviews" my brother urges, "Go back down to Parliament and set him straight". I chuckle, before resuming my usual sad expression.

"He wouldn't listen to me. I doubt he'll ever listen to me again" I exhale, quite exhausted by the thought of trying to influence Ed's thinking again, "I'm quite ashamed of my party sometimes, you know". I look away from the newspaper before it depresses me too much.

"I'm surprised you haven't torn up your membership card" Nevin jokes.

"Oh, no" I reply, "I've threatened it with a pair of scissors a few times, but it's still in one piece". I was surprised that dreadful Chief of Staff hadn't tried to convince Ed to suspend me from the party after our altercation in his office. The moment I returned to Parliament, and showed that I had recovered from my cardiac arrest, I would no doubt find myself an independent.

"So, will you go back?" Nevin tries once more. Labour on course to lose election. I chance another look at the newspaper. The polls wouldn't change with me sitting idle, but the polls wouldn't change when I spoke in the Commons either. I didn't see how I could change the fortunes of my party.

"They probably won't listen to you" Nevin says, clearly reading my mind, "But you can at least tell them how you feel". As my mother always used to say, write them a strongly worded letter.

"The Commons might distract you, anyway" my brother continues, determined in his campaign to get me moving again, "Go on, Liz". If was so keen on me going back to Westminster, he could buy my train ticket and drive me down to the station.

"Fine" I say grudgingly, "I'll go."


	94. Parliament.

**10th March, 2014.**

**House of Commons, London.**

The press had made a ghost of me. I had opened The Guardian to find a cartoon of myself, hovering some distance above the ground amidst an eerie white glow. I stretched my hands out towards an unsuspecting Ed, expression contorted into one of evil glee.

The reality of our first meeting since my disappearance hadn't been so amusing. I had passed him in a corridor, and had simply tapped him on the shoulder. Though he was somewhat startled when he turned to face me. Still, he had been civil and kind. There was little reason for bitterness now.

"The whips thought you'd be better off here" Andy says, showing me into my new office. I take a moment to inspect it. It was certainly larger than my old one, and brighter. Portcullis House made for a nicer atmosphere than Parliament. "Why?" I ask curiously, "Because I'm further away from Ed?". Andy sighs.

"The Shadow Cabinet don't believe you resigned" he tells me. I take my new seat and shift about slightly to try and find the spot that was most comfortable. "So my resignation letter was _fabricated_?" I ponder. I didn't intend to be quite so prickly with Andy, but I hadn't awoken in the best of moods, and I had only agreed to return to the Commons on the insistence of my brother.

"That's not what I meant" Andy contends, patient despite my shortness, "A lot of them think you only resigned because you were threatened with the sack". I invite him to take the seat opposite my own to avoid him standing in the doorway like a fool.

"They think correctly" I reply, "I would have had to resign any way. Ed and I think very differently on Syria". I had wondered previously whether the stress of the vote that night had led to my collapse the next day. It had been a poor time to bicker.

"Home Office are happening today" Andy tells me hopefully, "You could join us, if you'd like". I laugh involuntarily.

"And sit several metres behind you?" I scoff, "I think I'll pass". Andy shrugs, disappointment clear, and gets to his feet again. I didn't know what he had been expecting. A cheerful, enthusiastic Elizabeth? I'd been neither cheerful nor enthusiastic for _years_. It was remarkable that he had stuck by me for so long.

"Will you get involved in the referendum at all?" Andy asks me just before he leaves. I'm reminded of worrying headlines from north of the border. There was a great deal of anger in Scotland, and there was every chance England would end up on the receiving end of it.

"I don't think that would be appreciated" I concede, "I'm not so much a Scot these days". I hadnt been to Scotland for years. Even in my idleness I had not thought to go. My accent had changed, and I had mellowed in the pride I felt for my country. I couldn't criticise the English when I was as English as any of them.

I'd won the last referendum I fought in. I suspected I might not be so lucky next time.

* * *

"Any gravy, dear?". A ladle filled with brown liquid is shoved in front of my face. I back away slightly so as not to be blinded. "I'm quite alright, thank you" I say politely. The woman stood behind the counter throws the ladle back down into its pot. "Suit yourself" is her curt reply.

Somewhat dazed by her attitude, I pick up my lunch and return to my seat. A number of people look at me as I walk by. _She's back_ , they would whisper, _I didn't think she'd come back_. My Labour colleagues, of the moderate persuasion at least, welcomed me back with open arms. The Conservatives had also been warm in their greeting of me. Even the right-wing types had come to shake my hand.

"It's nice to be missed" I mutter to myself as I take my seat. Gordon glares at those who whisper amongst themselves. "Try and take it as a compliment" he advises, "You're _interesting_."

"How boring their lives must be" I snort. I observe the food before me with a great deal of unease. I wasn't too hungry, but I was told that it was too early to go for a drink.

"The coalition is running out of things to agree on, you know" Gordon says, barely containing his delight. I note the glum expressions of the Lib Dems around us. I felt very little pity for them.

"I wonder how many of them will be left come the next election". It was a genuine query. Few occupied marginal seats, but vast swings in one direction or another were not unheard of. So long as Charles was not affected by the storm, I'd be content.

"Rumour has it" Jack Straw pipes up, joining us at the table with his own lunch, "You might not be here come the next election". Both he and Gordon had decided to stand down. The original gang would be almost gone come 2015. Margaret Beckett, Harriet Harman and myself would be all that remained.

"It's her first day back, Jack" Gordon warns, waving a spoon in his direction, "Let her get her affairs in order first". Jack takes the hint and focuses on his food instead. I didn't mind the insinuation. Truth be told, I wasn't sure whether or not I'd stay. On previous occasions, I'd liked the idea of resigning my seat. Now I wasn't so sure it was the right thing to do.

"God almighty" Jack comments suddenly, eyes drifting off to another part of the café, "If he gets any paler, you'll be able to see straight through him". I turn in my seat slightly and squint to see who it was he so poorly described.

A man stands beside Danny Alexander at the coffee machine, listening with a less than excited expression as his colleague rambles on. He was incredibly thin, and atop his head he wore his dark hair short. It was an odd style, one vaguely reminiscent of something Julius Caesar might have sported, but it complimented the thinness of his face.

"That's not George, surely?" I ask, turning back to my colleagues with a confused expression. He had undergone quite the transformation. I thought it suited him.

"Doesn't look too pleased, does he?" Gordon smirks, "He should have known this austerity bollocks wouldn't work". Even if he'd lost the weight he'd accumulated at the Treasury, he still looked miserable. I could sympathise with him on that score.

"You weren't exactly a bundle of joy when you were Chancellor" I remind Gordon, remembering very well the many rampages he had ventured on in No. 11. I was lucky to have never really been on the receiving end of his temper, but I'd been a witness to many an argument.

"And Gordon's wife didn't leave him" Jack adds. George's misery adopts a new meaning. " _What_?" I ask, quite stunned by the idea. I had been unlucky enough to have caught Frances in a bad mood when I had first encountered her. I didn't doubt that she was a lovely person. George wouldn't have chosen her, otherwise.

"It's a shame, really" Gordon says, jerking his head slightly, "It was in the papers a few months ago. He divorced her. Lord knows why". Gordon is unfazed by it, but I can tell Jack is waiting steady to make one witty remark or another. I shut down any further discussion of it before he can open his mouth.

"I don't think it's any of our business" I speak up, "Gordon, I hear you're planning on taking centre stage in the referendum". David had attempted to appease the Scots, but with little success. He was an incredibly posh Englishman and a Tory. The union would be well and truly doomed if its fate was left to him.

"Someone's got to make an effort" Gordon replies, "This government lot are useless". He was aging fast, with his once black hair now coloured with grey. He spoke only occasionally in the Commons, and kept himself to himself. Despite all that, he was already ready and waiting to leap into action in Scotland. It had been a long time since I'd seen him so enthused.

"I know you've _assimilated_ now" Gordon turns to me, "But you will chip in, won't you? True Scot or not, we need you on that campaign". Jack nods quietly as he gets started on his lunch. I'm tempted to push my own away. I didn't really get hungry any more.

"No, thank you" I reply politely, put off by the thought of launching myself back into the public eye, "I don't think I'd be much of a help". Gordon had often criticised me for being too English. My accent wasn't quite strong enough, and the only way I kept in touch with my roots, according to him, was by drinking whisky.

"As I read on Twitter this morning" I add, "I'm a posturing, posh, Blairite bitch who should either kill herself or join the Conservative Party". Jack chokes on his sandwich.

"The former is certainly more appealing than the latter" Gordon mutters to himself amusingly. I give a weak laugh and stab at my food, hoping that it might look slightly more appetising if I looked at it a little longer.

"Heads up" Jack says, still spluttering slightly, "I think you've got an admirer". I look back over in the direction of the coffee machine and see Danny Alexander is still nattering away to George. George stares at something, but it's not me.

Jack himself looks elsewhere. Discreetly, he gestures to another area of the café. I glance across briefly and spot Douglas Alexander watching me with soft eyes. I turn my own away the minute I identify him. "Is he _still_ after me?" I whisper, bowing my head in an attempt to hide.

"At least he's on the right side of the House" Gordon remarks. I roll my tired eyes and make one last attempt to start my lunch. Gordon eats his own ravenously.

Roast dinners had previously been something of a favourite of mine. Ian had been particularly fond of them, especially when they were cooked by our mother. I find I definitely can't eat it now. I feel quite ridiculous doing it, but I knew I had to get out.

"Excuse me for a moment" I say to my colleagues, keeping my composure as I push my chair out and head in the direction of one of the lesser used doors into the café.

I'm grateful that the corridor is empty. I keep close to the wall and shield my face just in case. I wouldn't have any of my colleagues know that I was so _fragile_ these days. I couldn't boast about being tough now. The smallest things set me off. It was really quite embarrassing.

"You're back". I turn my back instinctively. My reaction probably made it most obvious that I was crying, but I wouldn't have a colleague see me like this, especially when that colleague was George. "I thought I saw you" he goes on, lingering in the doorway slightly awkwardly, "How have you been?". I clear my throat and hastily wipe my tears away.

" _Wonderful_ " I reply, "I manage". I didn't want him to feel sorry for me. I didn't deserve his pity. I was amazed he found it in him to even speak to me. There was an undeniable sense of discomfort about him, as though he had approached me out of obligation rather than kindness.

"I'm glad you're better" George says stiffly, though I don't doubt he means it, "I did come and-". His voice trails off, as do his eyes. He finds something truly fascinating on his shoe and focuses on it rather than me.

"Excuse me" he says abruptly. He gives me a curt nod and turns to leave again. He had _definitely_ come out of obligation. I found I was quite offended. Or perhaps offended was not quite the right word. _Hurt_ , perhaps?

"Alex is at Magdalen" I blurt, not entirely sure why I felt this was an apt time to bring it up, "I know he'd appreciate a visit". George doesn't face me, but instead turns his head a matter of degrees.

"I saw him only last week" he informs me. And with that, he's gone again. Alex hadn't mentioned it to me. He hadn't mentioned George at all. He may have forgiven me enough to speak to me again, but he never discussed any of it with me. I'd always thought that he would, rightly, have questions, but they had never come.

He was sparing me, in a way, for now I find myself crying again. Crying over Ian's love of roast dinners and George's obvious contempt for me. _What a ridiculous creature I had become_.

"Would you care for a handkerchief?" a familiar voice booms from behind me. Again, I wipe the tears from my eyes with the upmost speed and turn in the direction of a voice with as bright a smile as I can muster.

"Thank you, Boris, but I'm fine" I tell the unmistakable Mayor of London, "Might I ask what you're doing here? Last I checked, Parliament was for MPs". Boris ruffles his already messy blond lockes and nods at nothing in particular.

"I was simply calling by for a meeting with a friend" he answers, "Thought I might stop by for a bit of grub". He inhales the smell of the café loudly and gazes off over my shoulder at the variety of foods waiting inside.

"Are you quite alright?" Boris asks, sunken eyes turning to me once again, "You look rather forlorn". Again, he tries to offer me a handkerchief. Boris could be quite the buffoon, but he at least some decency about him. His ridiculous manner almost _amused_ me.

"I'm fine, thank you" I insist, "Go in and have something to eat before it all goes cold". Boris nods and reaches about his person for his wallet.

"Drat" he exclaims, "I've left my money behind". _The Mayor of London, and he hadn't even a pound about him_. That definitely amused me. I think back to the roast dinner I had neglected, no longer saddened by memories of Ian.

"There's an untouched meal on Gordon Brown's table" I hint, "I'm sure he'd appreciate the company."


	95. An Independent.

**24th March, 2014.**

**The flat, London.**

_"You're selfish. Completely and utterly selfish"_. The cold stare. The feeling of him brushing past me. The sound of gravel crunching beneath tyres as he makes his exit. Not for the first time, it _haunts_ me.

My mother had asked me, whilst I lay in hospital, what Ian's final words to me had been. She'd been hoping for something kind, something conciliatory. Knowing that we had parted friends rather than foes would console her, and so Nevin had lied to her. _He was inviting her around for dinner_ , he had said. How bitterly different the truth had been.

 _"Are you really so focused on your own career that you wouldn't tell me?_ ". Those words, too, cut into me. George had as much cause to hate me now as any. All that happened on that awful day in August was self-inflicted. All that had happened previously was self-inflicted.

 _What an appalling person you are_. My inner voice had become not another observer, but my harshest critic. It reminded me that, no matter how much George or Ian might hate me, neither could hate me as much as I hated myself.

I see no point in sleeping any longer. I'd only be subjected to further torment. The darkness that encompassed me whenever I began to nod off reminded me too much of the nothing I had seen when I went into cardiac arrest. It was a fear of mine, that I'd rest my head one night and suffer another. _And then you'd never wake again_.

 _6:30am_. I usually went to work at 9am. There weren't any debates I had any burning desire to attend, and I was on top of my constituency work. _You're in London_ , I remind myself, _you must keep busy_. There was little point in me being here if wasn't doing anything productive.

After a quick shower and change, I find myself curling up on the couch watching _Downton Abbey_. I didn't enjoy it so much these days, but it spared me the pain of listening to my own thoughts.

With little amusement I watch Lady Mary stares, vacant and without emotion, at a photo of her Matthew. He'd died in a car crash. Like Matthew, Ian had a wonderful life ahead of him. And like Mary, I now remained hollow.

I'm startled by a knock on my apartment door. I check the clock on the far wall and frown. _7:00am_. It was a very odd time for a call.

Somewhat gingerly, I open the door. The face I am confronted by is not an unpleasant one, however, for I find myself now looking at Jonathan, a few pounds heavier and with light stubble about his jaw, but still my _Jonathan_.

"It's seven in the morning" I say, hiding my delight well. My former aide blinks at me.

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Ms Nelson" Jonathan speaks. A moment of silence passes, but before another word can be uttered I reach forward and hug him tightly.

* * *

"I've been missed". Jonathan sounds surprised, smiling at me from where he perches on the couch, cup of tea in hand. Depressed or not, I never forgot the one basic rule of British etiquette. _Always offer your guests a cup of tea_.

"My office is terribly quiet without you" I admit, "What are you doing these days?". Like me, Jonathan had handed in his resignation. I'd had a number of colleagues write references for him whilst I was in hospital, but had lost touch since then. He wasn't quite as neat and tidy as he had previously looked, but he seemed cheerful enough.

"I'm a writer, or at least trying to be" Jonathan replies, "I don't know what to write about."

"That seems rather feeble for a writer" I remark, holding my own cup of tea close in an attempt to warm myself, "Fiction non-fiction?". Jonathan considers the question as though it's one for the ages.

"Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings were always a bit much for me" Jonathan tells me thoughtfully. I was inclined to agree. Alex loved the mystery of such things. So in love was he with Star Trek, he had named the kitten he'd rescued all those years ago _Spock_. Less fantastical things such as Sense and Sensibility sufficed.

"Why not write about your own experiences? A tell-all piece about your life in government" I suggest, "So long as you don't mention where I buried the bodies". It was no doubt a poor thing to joke about, given what I had got up to as the nation's Defence Secretary. It was simply refreshing to feel I _could_ joke.

"I could do that" Jonathan ponders, eyes drifting slowly towards me, "Or, I could write about someone else". I splutter on my tea. _You're joking_.

Jonathan defends the idea before I can protest. "You appeared in Parliament at the age of twenty, having defeated the fucking _Deputy Prime Minister_ , and then went on to serve thirteen consecutive years in government" he relays, prompting a tut from me, "During which time you served in the Treasury, the Ministry of Defence and the Foreign Office. You've been Deputy Prime Minister yourself, and-". I hold my hand up to stop him.

"I don't need a biography, thank you" I warn. Jonathan made my history sound so very impressive. It was impressive, if one only recognised the positions I held and the age I assumed them, rather than my actions whilst I occupied them. I'd received much criticism for not intervening to halt the effects of the Financial Crash in 2008, but it was Iraq that haunted me most.

 _Ian. George. The Campions. Eva Smith. William Lewis. And every single family affected by my actions in Iraq_. It was a surprise I hadn't received more death threats in the past.

A biography is exactly what you need" Jonathan argues, "You've fascinate the press. You're liked by the public. Why shouldn't there be a book about Elizabeth Nelson?". People wrote books about Margaret Thatcher and Clement Attlee.

I point this out to Jonathan. His impression of me hadn't been tarnished by those awful events in August last year. As far as he was concerned, my greatest offence was throwing my phone into the Thames.

"Because she doesn't deserve it" I say. I find my voice trails off slightly, and for a moment I fear I'm about to break down again. Jonathan had brightened my mood. I wouldn't spoil it.

"Would you care to walk with me along to Parliament?" I ask, urging myself to move before my sadness could set in again. Jonathan downs the rest of his tea and nods.

"By all means, Ms Nelson."

* * *

I feel only slightly exposed on the streets of London. I bundled myself up tight. My scarf did little to hide my face, but it made me feel much more secure than I'd be without it. The morning's journey to work, it seemed, would be a simple dash through the streets and across the green. Despite living so close to the Commons, my walk there was taking quite some time.

"I just want to get a paper" Jonathan says as I stand by impatiently. He'd already been distracted by this and that. He acted as though London was still new to him. I watch as he emerges from a newsagents with a copy of The Guardian in hand.

"Oh, _shit_ " he mutters to himself. I frown and try to peer over to see what had disappointed him so. He moves the paper away the moment I do.

"Show me" I tell him. He folds the paper up and tucks it under his arm. Even when he had been in my employ, he wouldn't have listened to me. It had, however, made it obvious that there was something in The Guardian that I wasn't supposed to see. _What have you done now?_

I remain uneasy for the rest of the journey. Jonathan seeks to distract me with this and that. "Did you enjoy working at the Treasury?" he asks curiously, observing the great white building we walk by with wonder. I didn't know where exactly Jonathan had gone when I'd been taken ill, but it had certainly turned him into something of an outsider in London.

"Yes, very much" I answer, relieved to finally be thinking on happy memories, " _Taxing_ , if you'll forgive the pun, but enjoyable". An endless stream of civil servants and officials flow from the doors of the building. In and out men and women of the city hopped, going about their business as though the rest of humanity didn't exist. I wondered whether the ministers inside worked so hard.

"I can't say I think much of the current occupant" Jonathan mumbles, wonder dulling slightly as he remembers who it was controlling the Treasury now. "I admire any one who has the bravery to take that job on" I say, quite lost as I take in the sheer size of the place. Jonathan's curiosity had not been displaced. I'd forgotten how impressive the Treasury was.

"You can tell you're on medication" Jonathan quips as we continue our walk, the Houses of Parliament now in sight, "You've gone soft". _Soft_. _Soft_ sounded so much better than _weak_ , the word I had thought best suited me ever since my time in hospital.

"I'm old and I'm frail" I joke, "Let me mellow". I didn't care if I was no longer considered a firebrand. It was the 'tough', 'straight-talking' Elizabeth that had caused so much trouble. If I was gentler now, it was for the best.

Jonathan pretends to help me along the pavement, a kind soul aiding a poor old woman as she plods along. I wonder whether I should join the Peers when I reach Parliament, rather than the MPs. Heseltine had, a number of years ago, promised me a seat, after all.

* * *

Jonathan had taken his copy of The Guardian with him. Even amongst my group of Labour colleagues, a copy could not be found. I'd even been cheeky enough to pop my head around the door of my nearest Conservative neighbours.

There was something about me in that paper. I'd be in a permanent state of crisis if I went into a flap at every mention of my name in the papers. I was mentioned by one or another most days, even if it was only fleetingly. The Guardian had always been something of a friend, and so I expected nothing too damning.

 _"Oh, shit"_. I recall Jonathan's reaction. His determination to keep the piece from me suggested it was damning after all. A number of my peers in the PLP had appeared most uncomfortable when I had mentioned it to them. What have you done?

I pace my office most impatiently. The obvious thing to do, you might think, would be to go out and fetch a copy myself. I remind myself of the time. 10am. By now, the paper would be spread right across the city. Most who wanted it would already have read it by now. Even if my colleagues refused to tell me what they knew of the damning piece, they still _knew_.

I wouldn't to be able to stand any more nervous staring. I needed to read it, but without prying eyes. The last thing I wanted was to be seen to read a piece that others knew was not very complimentary of me.

My last hope lay with one I was most keen to avoid. Yet my curiosity, and worry, about what might be contained in The Guardian overwhelm me.

"Douglas?" I ask tentatively, fearing I would give him the impression that I spoke to him out of a great desire to do so. My eyes instantly fall on the newspaper laid upon my colleague's desk.

"Liz" Douglas smiles from his seat, "Do sit down". I politely refuse.

"No, no, I haven't come to disturb you" I insist, itching to get my hands on that article, "I wonder if I might borrow your copy of The Guardian". Douglas stands so fast he almost tips his desk over.

"By all means" he replies, passing it to me. I smile in thanks and make my exit. Before I can escape, Douglas calls out to me. "Would you join me for tea later?" he proposes.

Again, I am forced to politely refuse. I liked Douglas, but I wouldn't give him cause to think I liked him as he liked me. Besides, apart from the occasional sit down with Gordon or Charles or another of my old friends, I usually took tea on my own.

Once in the safety of my own office, with the door shut firmly, I open the paper and flick to the page that had inspired such alarm in Jonathan. It was not a large piece, but one tucked in the corner of the page beneath various talk of Ed. _NELSON PLOTTED LEADERSHIP CHALLENGE, SAYS AIDE_ was the headline. I know instantly who the aforementioned aide is. _That damned Chief of Staff_.

Feeling somewhat nauseous, I read on. _Speaking at a party hosted by The Telegraph last month, it has been revealed, Emma Barnaby, currently Chief of Staff to Ed Miliband, claimed that Elizabeth was plotting to challenge the Labour leader after refusing to back him on Syria_. The piece continues much in the same vein. It also alludes to the fact that I had first been sacked, and then given the option of resigning. _For my pride_ , it said. I had very little pride left to protect.

I try to distract myself with the other articles crammed onto the page. _LABOUR TRAIL BEHIND CONSERVATIVES ON TRUST OVER IMMIGRATION. GOVERNMENT HOLD STRONG IN POLLS. MILIBAND NOT FIT FOR DOWNING STREET, SUGGESTS MANDELSON_. It was as though they had pulled the headlines together to depress me, as though I needed to be any further depressed. Sure enough, my eyes drift back over to the piece that my nearest colleagues had been so keen to avoid.

 _NELSON PLOTTED LEADERSHIP CHALLENGE, SAYS AIDE_. Something within me snaps. I don't cry this time, but instead find myself slowly crushing the corner of the paper with my fist. The staffer of my party leader had not only spoken of matters that she ought to keep to herself, she had also _lied_. Any such adviser would have been sacked instantly, many years ago.

_I wonder if Ed has seen this morning's edition of The Guardian._

* * *

I can tell I'm not welcome the moment I turn into the corridor leading up to Ed's office. The offices I walk past are occupied by those working close to him. They make no attempt to stop me, but instead watch me, cautious. I would not barge in. I pause, clear my throat, and then knock gently on the door.

"Ms Nelson" that awful voice calls. I don't bother to turn around. I simply stand away from the door so to let her past. "Just the person I wanted to see" I tell the now infamous Emma Barnaby, "If you could allow me in, I'd be grateful". She frowns at me, but does as she's instructed.

Ed is buying writing when I step inside. He actually bothers to smile at me when he looks up. "Liz!" he exclaims, surprised all the same, "It's good to see you again". We hadn't spoken since our short reintroduction when I had first returned to parliament. Occasionally, he would glance back at me from where he sat on the front bench. _Lord knows why_.

"Likewise" I return, albeit stiffly, "Have you read this morning's papers?". Ed appears puzzled. The stack to the right of him on his desk suggests he has, but his expression remained vacant.

"The papers?" he inquires. I untuck the copy of The Guardian from beneath my arm and pass it to him. I'd folded it onto the relevant page so that he wouldn't have any difficultly seeing what it was that had so incensed me. "I don't understand" Ed says.

"That article there" I nudge, "Interesting, do you not think?". Silence descends as Ed skims over it. Emma doesn't appear frightened, but every bit as confused as her boss. Either she was a brilliant actress, or she was unaware of it too.

"But that's a lie" Ed speaks up, finally, "I know our friendship has become, well, _strained_ recently, but I'd never accuse you of such a thing". I wait for him to turn on his Chief of Staff, but his dark eyes remain on the paper.

"What rubbish" he mutters to himself, "A _leadership challenge_ ". I start at the sound of the office door clicking behind me. I can already tell who had saw fit to burst in. Their manner of walking gave it away.

"Leadership challenge indeed" comes the voice of Ed Balls. Oblivious to both myself and Emma, he marches up to Ed's desk and slaps a copy of the very paper he reads before him. 

"First she mutters behind _my_ back" Balls grumbles, voice quiet but laced with anger, "And now this. Grow a pair and sort her out". Ed blinks at him, before looking back to me. It's only then that Balls acknowledges my presence.

"Sorry" he says to me, but with not a hint of sincere apology. I didn't mind. For once, I sided with him. In fact, I thought it rather surprising that he would be so angered by foul words about me. I hadn't thought him too fond of me.

"He's right". I address Ed but glare in the direction of Miss Barnaby, who stands remarkably quiet. "You can't possibly think it right to keep her after this". Ed's face remains unchanged.

"I don't understand" the man repeats. Balls rolls his eyes. I would have found it amusing, had I not been as annoyed as he. It was flattering to know that he didn't object to _all_ of my mannerisms.

"Read the piece again, you twat" Balls blurts. Ever the diplomat. The lack of shock on Ed's face gives me impression he was used to being addressed in such a way. Perhaps I would read of deep rifts between the two in tomorrow's Guardian. Miss Barnaby could embellish that too, and say the two men fought each other with flailing fists.

I almost breathe a sigh of relief when Ed thinks to actually look at his Chief of Staff. "Did you really say this?" he asks, stunned more than anything, "That Telegraph party I brought you along to. Who did you speak to there?". The girl freezes for a moment or two.

"He said we were speaking off the record" she stutters.

" _Who_?" her boss demands, irritation clear now. Ed still frightened me when angry. It was too unnatural a state for me. My Ed had never been an angry person. "One of the hacks at The Telegraph" Barnaby reveals, "I think his name was _Liam_."

 _Of course it was_. No doubt the same Liam of The Telegraph whom I had found incredibly creepy when first I met him at dinner. The same Liam who had revealed the awful letters that had turned both Alex and George against me. Yet, the same Liam who, I was convinced, had then handed those letters to Lionel, in order to be delivered safely to me and away from the printing press of The Telegraph. I didn't know where Liam was now, only that he seemed, for some bizarre reason, to be _helping_ me.

And if he'd been willing to betray his masters to talk to Lionel, he'd be willing to betray them again for The Guardian.

The poor conduct of Ed's dreadful Chief of Staff would be revealed, and I would be satisfied by her impending dismissal. _He was definitely helping me_. For as cunning as this Liam clearly was, there was one possibility that he had not considered. The possibility that Ed might be in a forgiving mood.

"You're supposed to be a professional" Ed snaps at the girl, "You cannot go around saying such things, especially when you know they're not true". Barnaby bows her head in shame. Both Balls and I wait patiently for those fatal words of dismissal to come. The way in which Barnaby shakes suggests she expects the same.

" _Don't_ do it again". Ed's sentence is passed. Incredulously, I watch the girl scamper out of the office, forced to dwell in her shame for a few hours until Ed required her services again.

" _For fuck's sake_ " Balls mumbles under his breath.

No dismissal. No satisfaction. My elusive helper's intentions were welcome, but unsuccessful. But _why_? Balls' cursing was justified.

"You're _joking_ " I growl. Perhaps I had been mistaken. My Ed had been just as soft as the leader stood before me. He was more himself than I had previously thought. "That woman has doubted me for God knows how long now, and you think it fit to let her carry on?" I spit. It did little for my temperament, and my heart for that matter, to snap in this way, but I had little composure left.

I wouldn't cry on this occasion.

"I stay for my party, not you" Balls snarls, words shot like bullets towards the man he so serenely sat beside in the Commons, "Remember that". He exits the room with as much haste as Barnaby had.

"For the love of _God_ , Ed" I cry, confident to do so now that we were alone, "You say you don't suspect me of anything underhand, but then you let that woman make me out to be some kind of traitor". Ed makes no attempt to interrupt me.

"It hurts, to be treated so cautiously by the leadership of a party I've dedicated much of my life to" I go on, not realising quite how much I needed to get off my chest, "Is it any wonder I criticise you, Ed? Lord knows I've tried to shake off the doubts I have about you, but I see now there's little point in it. You'll never trust me, so why should I trust you?". My inner voice is less brazen. _Calm down_ , it advises, _calm down and think clearly_.

Ed cautions the same. "Please, Liz, you need to calm down" he speaks quietly, "You're not thinking straight. Sit down and discuss this with me properly". For the second time since I'd entered the office, he smiles. I know it's genuine. I know that, despite our difficulties, he still cared for me. Part of me is saddened by the state we find ourselves in.

But the rest of me remains angry. "It's not often I say it, but I agree with Balls. On _something_ at least" I shoot, fixing him as cold a stare possible, "You do need to grow a pair and sort _her_ out". Ed's smile is replaced by an expression of sadness. _You know he means well_ , my inner voice rants on, _leave him be_.

"And might I hope that the _something_ that you don't agree with him on is less damning?" Ed hopes. _Apologise to him_.

"Balls said he didn't stay for you, but his party" I respond, calmer now, "I'm afraid I don't feel the same way". Ed's smile returns, but it is far more wary than it had been previously. He was right to think that there was more I needed to say. _Stop behaving like a child and calm down before you have a heart attack_.

"I'm glad" Ed says. Already he braces himself. It was as though he had spoken the sentence in an attempt to reassure himself. We may have been somewhat estranged, but he still _knew_ me. He also knew I was in too fragile a state to be conciliatory.

"Yes. Yes I imagine you are" I state, ignoring the pleas from my conscience to change tact, "If you won't be free of her, be free of me. Balls will stay for his party. I won't". It's only now that I feel like crying. No doubt I would do just that once I left the office.

"You can't mean that" Ed splutters, eyes widening. _You don't mean that_.

"I do" I reply sternly, defying both voices, "Let me trouble you no more. _I resign my membership of the Labour Party_."


	96. Friends in Unlikely Places.

**26th March, 2014.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

"What the _fuck_ have you done?". It was at least the seventh time Gordon had sworn at me, but I remained unfazed. "You're damn lucky you've avoided a by-election" my old friend goes on, not bothering to hide his disgust with me, "The Tories would be allover that seat of yours". I can almost hear his shudder.

I'd resigned myself to Oxfordshire again. The press would try to get at me one way or another most mornings, but I ignored them. I'd said very little after my sudden, and admittedly petulant, decision to sit instead as an independent MP. That, naturally, had fuelled further speculation of a great rift between myself and Ed. I couldn't really deny it now. I had, predictably, spent a great deal of time weeping since it happened. In my loneliness, I had begun to wonder whether it was not Ed who had changed, but _me_.

"For fuck's sake, Liz" Gordon grumbles on, tearing me away from my thoughts with yet more words of anger, "Labour is where you belong, and you know it". I take another sip of the whisky I'm holding and stare vacantly at the ceiling.

"Quite" I reply curtly, "And the Labour I see now is not _my_ Labour". Rumours of defection had also been sparked. Whilst I may have been keen to give little away regarding my relationship with Ed, I had been more than happy to dispel any suggestion that I would jump into bed with the Conservatives. _Amputation was more appealing_ , I had said at the time.

"If you're still hankering for the New Labour days" Gordon tuts from the other end of the line, "You deserve to sit on your own". Gordon had a terribly funny way of showing loyalty to a person. Perhaps I'd managed to offend him too. _The list was growing_.

"They can't me from sitting next to you" I remind him, "Unless you don't want to be associated with a filthy Blairite traitor". For the first time since our conversation began, Gordon laughs.

"Filthy Blairite traitor or not" he says, "Most of the PLP are still behind you". With such words, it was little surprise that dreadful Barnaby girl had thought I was organising a coup. As insulted as I might have been, the way in which many of my colleagues rallied around me made me realise there was some justification for it.

"I can't understand why" I sigh, "I don't deserve loyalty from any one". I couldn't understand why they stood by me so dutifully. I'd done little for them. _I was selfish, remember?_

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself" Gordon tells me sharply, "Take a little more time to recover, and then rejoin the party. Stop dragging your feet and get behind us again". He hangs up before I can argue with him.

I wonder if it's possible to annoy the entirety of Westminster. I was certainly making progress. _At least my whisky wouldn't challenge me_. I go to fetch another glass when there is a light knock on the front door.

I steady myself in case it's another journalist. Evening had set in by now, and most had given up hope of getting a quote or two from me. That didn't mean that there weren't enough prepared to go to more extreme lengths to hear from me. _Not all hacks were as fair as the mysterious Liam of The Telegraph_.

But there is no journalist standing on my doorstep. Instead, I am confronted by the sight of two young men, similar in age. One has pleasantly tanned skin, and a head of tight, dark curls, the other frightfully pale with much lighter curls. The latter now sports a pair of round spectacles. I wasn't accustomed to seeing them on him, but I think they fit perfectly.

"Sorry" Alex says hurriedly, "I know we should have called before hand, but we thought you might be in need of-". _I didn't need a call_. I cut him off with a hug, trying my upmost to hold the other young man close too.

"Don't be silly" I smile, "This is your home. You're free to visit whenever you like". University life agreed with Alex. Whilst he may be even paler than before, he had put on a few pounds around the waist, and around him was the air of a man content with life.

"I hope you don't mind Isaac staying too" Alex babbles on. I roll my eyes at the boy and usher both him and his companion inside. "Not at all" I reassure the pair, "Is your father well, Isaac?."

"Very much so" the young man speaks, hanging his coat upon the stand in the corner of the hallway, "The business seems to be doing well, so he's been in high spirits". I find the presence of the two brightens my mood. I was used to being apart from Alex for extended periods of time, but I still missed him. And my treatment of him in lying to him made me all the keener to try and make amends.

"Let's hope he doesn't invest any more money into the Lib Dems" I joke, "He might find himself in less than high spirits". _Someone had to give them money_. The look of light amusement on Isaac's face suggests to me that it was not just the older Freidman who was keen on the liberals.

"Speaking of politics" Alex says, "I said I'd attend a meeting a little later, down at the local Conservative Association". I begin to wonder whether it was a coincidence that he called by at this time.

"Heavens, you finally manage to say it aloud" I titter to myself, "My son is a _Conservative_ ". In the past I had been somewhat put off by the idea. I had now come to the conclusion that Alex was as guilty as I had been when I first told my father that I was a supporter of Kinnock rather than Thatcher.

"Yes, well, I always find _honesty_ is best" my son retorts. I look after him sadly as he walks by into the lounge. Isaac observers me pitifully. "He told me, by the way" he admits, "I understand you, and I think he will eventually". I give him a small smile and invite him to go on through. It was a small gesture, but one no less appreciated.

"I think George might call by whilst I'm here" Alex sees fit to inform me, "He says he's in the county for a meeting or other, and I haven't seen him recently". I wasn't told when he visited Alex at Magdalen. I saw no point in being uncomfortable at the thought of the two spending time together now. I simply let them get on with it.

All I can manage in reply despite this is a small ' _oh_ '. Wisely, Isaac changes the subject. "We're both enjoying Oxford, you know" he speaks, taking a seat in the lounge, "Though I think Alex is more at home there than I". Alex was an Etonian, and therefore had the ability to sympathise with those on the higher end of the social spectrum, but he was also unfailingly humble. I imagined he was quite popular at Magdalen.

"I don't know. You're remarkably popular with the art lot" Alex replies, sitting down beside the other man. I resume my position in my armchair and study the two from a distance. They sat closely, comfortable enough to accidentally brush against one another without hastily mumbling their apologies. They were quite the couple, even if they didn't admit as much.

"I'm trying to convince him to run for the presidency of the Union next term" Isaac looks to me. Alex rolls his eyes. _Definitely a couple_.

"You should go for it" I advise, "If they're daft enough to give Boris Johnson the position, they give it to you too". Isaac laughs but Alex himself doesn't. I could tell he wanted to appear unconvinced by the idea, but there was undeniably a twinkle in his eye at the mention of the Union presidency. _A future prime minister indeed_.

"I was also thinking about moving back here when I start my second year" Alex says, "Ever since you were taken ill, I, _well_ , I don't like the idea of you being alone for extended periods of time". I don't protest. As accustomed was I was to his absence, the hours I spent in Henley would be much more bearable if Alex were with me for some of them.

"It'd be a thirty minute commute every day" he adds, hints of a smile dancing upon his lips, "But I don't mind that". I hesitate before speaking in return. I catch a glance between the two young men before me and suspect there is something Alex has yet to add.

"I was also wondering whether you'd perhaps consider, _well_ , it's only a thought of course, but if you could _maybe_ just think about-". Alex trips over his words as though he's forgotten every elocution lesson ever given to him at Eton.

"Yes, Isaac can move in too" I finish for him, rolling my eyes as I do so. Isaac laughs at the ridiculous awkwardness of the boy sitting beside him. Alex simply smiles. It was warming, to see him _smile_ at me again. I could put up with the occasional sharp comment. It was the icy stares and cold words that had defeated me on previous occasions.

Alex's cheerful reverie is interrupted by the time. "Good Lord, is it really so late?" he exclaims, jumping to his feet, "I'm supposed to be giving my speech soon". He swoops down to give his companion a parting peck on the lips, before hurrying over to deliver a similar peck on the cheek. And with that, he's out of the door and out of sight.

"Speech?" I query, turning to a slightly perplexed Isaac, "He never mentioned a speech". The boy shrugs.

"Say, Ms Nelson, would you be interested in going for a drive?" he asks.

"A drive to where exactly?" I ponder. A slightly mischievous smile grows on Issac's lips.

"Why, the local Conservative Association, of course."

* * *

I hadn't anticipated spending my evening hovering outside the town council building, trying to listen in to the conversations of the local Conservatives. It was only a small building, with various rooms that such groups rented for their meetings.

"Perhaps we should go in and sit down?" Isaac considers. I was grateful that there were no journalists hanging about. This would undoubtedly add further fuel to the flame of my alleged defection.

"You can" I say, "I'm afraid I'd simply cause too much of a distraction". Isaac thinks on the idea for a moment longer, before shaking his head and resuming his perch on the window ledge. "I don't think I can sit through much of their drivel without speaking out" he sighs, "Even if Alex is the one delivering that drivel". I find that amuses.

"You're really not a fan, are you?" I laugh quietly. I wasn't sure how we'd excuse ourselves should one of the members inside leave to go to the toilet. Isaac seems to be thinking on the same issue, and leaves the ledge to find somewhere where we might hide should someone come out. _How dreadfully embarrassing this was_. Such was my desire to hear this speech of Alex's.

It's then that I hear my name. Except it does not come from the meeting of the local Conservative Association, it comes from a room further down the corridor. Intrigued, Isaac and I follow the voices and approach the door. Through the window set into it I can see a gathering of people.

There aren't so many as there had been in the Conservatives' meeting. And whilst the general feeling of the Tories' discussions had been very civil, an unpleasant air of hostility hung about the room before me.

"She's abandoned our cause" one man spits, fist shaking in the air, "Let's force a by-election now and be done with it". A number of people around him nod in agreement. The person at the head of the meeting is slightly more tentative.

"I'm as angry as any of you" he addresses the assembled crowd, "We've given up a lot of time to fight for her, and got little in return. You've every right to be angry". Kevin always had been the most diplomatic of my election team. Irritating at times, yes, but no less tactful. I find his words sadden me more than anything. _Got little in return_. Ian's final words of my selfishness come back once again to haunt me.

"That's the last time we throw our weight behind some posh Thatcherite's bitch" another man pipes up, "Henley deserved better". My hand slips over the handle of the door. Kevin's criticism had been fair. I wouldn't stand being referred to as _some posh Thatcherite's bitch_.

"Liz" Isaac whispers, interrupting my plans to burst into the meeting and confront the man. "Liz, look!". He's moved away from the Labour meeting and has now rejoined that of the Conservatives. He watches someone inside with the upmost interest.

I do as instructed and take the space beside him. Through the glass of the door I see Alex, now stood at the head of the meeting. He is given respectful silence when he speaks.

"Relax, Mr Chairman" he pokes, "I don't come to you as a spy of the red army. If the past few days are anything to go by, it appears my mother has even more contempt for the Labour Party than I". I wondered what they all thought of him. I knew the Association chairman had always liked him, but I knew little of the attitudes of ordinary members. Most in the room had spent years trying to unseat me, yet now they gave time to my son. It was an odd spectacle.

"You'll forgive me if I joke about my mother rather than attack her" he adds, "I'd like to remain her favourite". The assembled members certainly appreciated his sense of humour. Most assumed Alex to be something of a wet blanket when first they met him, because of his seemingly unrelenting kindness, but he was in reality a very witty person.

"Though I will say this. I appreciate most of you have spent decades fighting her" my son goes on, adopting a more serious tone now, "But think we as a party must respect her. She's proven our point. Labour does not speak for people, but abandons them". He is met with a great deal of applause. I wasn't sure I liked the sentiment, but I did at least appreciate the defence of me. The fact that, even in a room full of Conservatives, he remained _my boy_ was quite amusing.

Isaac resumes his position on the window ledge, head tilted in the direction of the door to pick up on what it was Alex was saying. I stand still, watching on with equal interest. He didn't stutter or mumble, as he so often did when feeling awkward when at home. He spoke clearly and eloquently, as though he were born to it. His voice was well-suited to public speaking. The members before him hung onto his every word.

Over the next fifteen minutes, we're treated to a lecture on the failings of both Labour and the Conservatives, as well as ways in which the latter might improve. I disagreed with elements of it, but I still managed to enjoy it.

The Tories, he said, were too obsessed with Europe and immigration and welfare. The party, he suggested, should have more focus on the environment and the young and social mobility. Even Isaac nods on occasions. Alex made David Cameron sound like a right-winger. _Modern Conservatism_ would not stop with my cousin.

There are moments when I think one of the watching members might speak up, insulted by Alex's attack on his own party. But, to my relief, no heckling comes. Such was the way in which Alex delivered his criticism, his audience could only deliberate it in their heads quietly.

"Even I enjoyed that" Isaac concludes, clearly amused. Loud applause erupts inside the room. I'm tempted to join in. I watch as Alex, smiling shyly, allows members to shake his hand. I'm content to watch him bathe in the appreciation of the room for a while, but suddenly I find him staring at me.

Standing in front of a glass door, it seemed, had not been a wise move. As Alex notices me, others around him do too. _Great_. My name was being dragged through the mud in the Labour meeting further along the corridor. Perhaps I'd face some good, old-fashioned abuse from the Tories too.

Isaac and I look to one another nervously as the local Conservative chairman leans into Alex and whispers something. We both stand back when he approaches the door.

"Don't stand out there all evening" he smiles, not bothering to question our attendance, "Come inside". I do so, but hesistantly. Many pairs of eyes fix on me the moment I do so. I expect someone to shout out at me, but I am met only with kindness.

_"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Nelson."_

_"You were the best of a bad bunch, in my opinion."_

_"I respect you enormously for what you did."_

I want to think that they're all lying, that they're only flattering me to make a fool of me. Alex senses my caution. "They may not agree with you" he tells me quietly, "But they respect you all the same". I recognised a number of the faces around me. They were the faces I had seen staring up at me with cold eyes when I had first unseated Michael Heseltine. I'd always thought they'd never forgive me.

"You should have told me you were coming" Alex says, addressing both myself and the surprisingly buoyant Isaac, "What did you think?". Even if we didn't see eye to eye, I could still be proud of him.

"I think my son is going to end up a prime minister" I smile. Alex rolls his eyes, before turning to Isaac hopefully.

"You're the only Tory I'd vote for" the boy winks. I find the adoring way in which my son looks upon him heightens my spirits all the more. "Come along" I say, not wanting to out stay my welcome amongst the local Tories, "Let's head home."

I feel remarkably light when I leave the room. For the first time in several months, I felt genuinely _happy_. My mood makes me all the more excited at the prospect of Alex moving back in on a permanent basis.

But then, as was now typical, I'm sent crashing back down to Earth. With a host of chatting Tories, as keen as I to get home before night fell, behind me, I am _spotted_. From the door down the hall pours a stream of local Labour members. Most talk amongst themselves, barely noticing me at all. Others are more attentive.

The more polite types give me small smiles. Others, by great contrast, make their contempt for me clear. "I fucking told you" I hear the gruff man I had overheard earlier speak, "She's jumped into bed with _that_ lot."

"She must've seen how the polls are going and jumped ship to save her skin."

"A _traitor_."

I wanted to retaliate, but Alex stops me before I can open my mouth. I couldn't blame them for their anger, but I didn't at all appreciate being labelled a _traitor_. They were as stupid as the national press if they thought I was incensed enough against Ed to defect to the _Conservatives_ , of all groups. I'd appreciated their hospitality in welcoming me into their meeting, and I had great respect for many in their party, but never would I become one of them.

Amputation was still more appealing.

"Let's go" Alex urges, gently taking me by the wrist. I clear my throat and, head raised ever so slightly aloft, walk past the muttering men before me and out into the open.

 _Traitor_. It was the sort of insult those on the far-left of the party had often used on me. It hadn't bothered me up until now. Resignation or not, I'd still given up years of my life for Labour.

"We can get home and watch more of that programme you're so keen on, Mother" Alex goes on, leading me away from the shouts of my old allies and towards the car.

" _Downton Abbey_ " Isaac snorts.

It would certainly distract my mind for a while. Even if I didn't enjoy the programme as much as I had once done, it was a _distraction_. I could sit quietly as I watched it and not be labelled a _traitor_.

It would go well with a glass of whisky too, of course. 


	97. Ghosts of Lovers Past.

**27th March, 2014.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I'm woken early by the sound of tapping on the back door. My sleep had been only a light one, and the repetitive _tap tap tap_ had stirred me. Wiping my tiredness from my eyes, I slip my dressing gown on and make my way downstairs, cautious of waking my son and his companion in the neighbouring room.

" _That damn cat_ " I mutter to myself. No doubt Spock had managed to get himself stuck outside and was now pawing at the door for attention. That was my original theory, anyway. I am forced to reassess it when I see the shadow of a man through the window of the back door. A journalist?

I wouldn't torture myself any further by reading the morning's papers. With the word _traitor_ still bouncing about my head, the last thing I wanted to be tormented further about my decision to leave. When I do pluck up the courage to open the door, I'm tormented by another decision.

"Good morning". A visibly embarrassed George stands on the doorstep, eyes darting about the garden for any sign of a camera that might catch him. The press would have a field day should they catch him here. "Sorry for scratching at the back like this" he apologises, still lingering out in the open, "I got the feeling I was being _watched_ around the front". I step aside and gesture for him to step in. I had hoped he would come later, when Alex was awake and I was out of the house.

"I'm sorry if I woke you" George adds, hanging his coat up in the hall. Still in the process of waking up, I blindly flip the switch of the kettle and wait for it to boil. "You needn't be sorry" I sigh, idly watching the water inside dance as it grew hotter and hotter, "This is quite late for me". I'd woken up offensively early more or less every morning since I'd emerged from my coma. It was as though my body, after two weeks of induced sleep, forced me to stay awake.

"Tea?" I offer politely. George nods appreciatively. He wasn't quite as miserable as he had been when last I saw him in the café at Parliament. His brighter mood, I imagined, came at the prospect of seeing Alex again. _You mustn't be stubborn_ , I remind myself, shaking off any remaining feeling of discomfort at the idea of the two sticking up some form of friendship, _it's good thay they get along_.

"Alex will be up soon, I suspect" I say, listening out for signs of life above, "You're welcome to use the lounge. I won't get in your way". I fix up two fresh cups of tea and turn to take my own into the study. I give my temple a light rub when I spot the growing collection of empty scotch bottles accumulating on one of the worktops in the kitchen. _Charles would be most disappointed in you_. To my greater shame, George appears to spot them too, but says nothing.

"Will you always be so awkward around me?" he says abruptly, "We are _adults_ , I believe". Despite his happier mood, he still spoke to me with little warmth. His eyes weren't quite so cold now, however, which made them easier to meet.

"I'll be _awkward_ for long as I know you hate me" I reply quietly, bowing my head, the contempt with which I regarded myself still weighing heavy around my neck. _Of course he hates you. You lied_.

"I could never hate you". George defies a thought I had by now come to accept as fact. _Why don't you hate me?_ I leave the room to contemplate in the privacy of my study. Had my mother been present, she would have cussed me for my poor manners. I'd left a guest alone to amuse themselves.

I very much doubted I could amuse George. He claimed to not hate me, and I was inclined to believe him, but it didn't mean he _liked_ me. I rub the locket that still remains around my neck thoughtfully.

 _"My eldest son is about your age. He's at college too" Sir Peter Osborne says, just another voice amongst the many echoing about the halls of Fenton House on that night in 1988, "Ah, there he is! George!". He barks his son's name to an area a cornsr of the room several metres away. I doubt this 'George' will be able to hear his father over the hubbub of the party, but to my surprise he comes running. And so there stands a young man of my age, both lanky and tall, with thick, dark curls atop his head and even darker eyes. He appears awkward, shy perhaps. There is certainly something oddly endearing about him, though, even I must concede. "Elizabeth" I say, offering my hand to him. The boy blinks at me, before taking it and giving it a feeble shake. His hands fall to his sides the moment I withdraw my own. "George" he replies, smiling weakly. Before I can say anything else, my Father is ushering us away_.

Neither us had known quite how tumultuous the next few decades would be. If we had known, would we have bothered talking to one another? All I'd thought that night was that I was befriending someone new. I could remember, at some point in the early 1990s, reflecting on how much our lives had changed since that evening at Fenton House. The 90s were simplistic compared to that which I had endured over the last twelve months.

_"Elizabeth Nelson is nothing but a clueless young girl seeking a rebellion in her support for the potentionally damaging policies of Neil Kinnock". The accent George adopts is whilst reading the extract of the letter is most odd._

_"You sound as though you're attempting Churchill" I titter. George cusses me for interrupting and straightens out the paper he reads from. "Why should Henley vote for this socialist pretender? Nelson ought to keep her ideas within the confines of the Oxford Union" he goes on, his mock accent wobbling even more, "Or, better still, follow the example of her learned and decent father and take up the banner of the blue army". I wait for his reaction to the letter in full. The mocking way in which he had read it suggested he wasn't too impressed._

_"What a tosser" is his verdict. Amused, I prepare myself for an elaboration. "Heseltine is a good man, but I'd rather you won the seat" he muses, discarding the newspaper and lying back on the bed to rest his head. "Just imagine" he grins, "You might be an MP this time next year". I snort._

_"But I'm nothing but a clueless young girl" I jest, resting my own weary head on the pillow next to his. I had much to prepare for, with exams and party business to attend to. "What will you do if I did win?" I ask, curious about his answer._

_"I'd get a job with The Spectator, or something of the like" George answers, as though reciting something he'd told himself a thousand times before, "And then, when you become prime minister, I'll be the colourful yet loveable spouse". I could give him points for creativity at least._

_"You wouldn't hate me if I did it, would you?". The question slips from my lips without great consideration. George gives my hand a squeeze before nestling deeper into the bed and closing his eyes, ready for a decent night's sleep._

_"I could never hate you."_

" _Ms Nelson_?". I remind myself of where I am. I set my tea down and turn to face Isaac, who pokes his head around the doorway. "There's someone on the phone for you" he says. I thank him and make my way into the hall.

"Are you alright?" the young man asks me, "You're crying". Instinctively, I reach up to touch my face. My cheeks are damp, and only now do I begin to notice a slight blurriness in my vision.

"I'm fine" I smile, lifting the phone from the receiver and holding it to my ear. Isaac is sceptical, but doesn't press me. He simply nods and retreats into the lounge.

"Hello?" I speak. A voice I hadn't heard before replies. They sound slightly out of breath, but not in any way panicked. Despite my not knowing them, I listen to their words closely.

"Emily? Yes, of course I don't mind looking after her for a few days. She's _my_ daughter" I tell the voice, "London? I can get the train, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while". For many minutes the voice continues. I was somewhat irked by the manner in which they spoke, but I sensed this was not the right moment to whinge.

"Stay with her until I get there" I suggest, "Might I ask which ward he's in?". The voice tells me. And then the call is ended.

I hurry back into the study and retrieve my tea. Before I make the trek upstairs to get ready, I remember to call into the lounge. I wouldn't disappear without telling Alex, no matter how important the situation.

"I'm sorry, but I need to head down to London" I tell my son, and his assembled guests, "Lionel has been taken ill, and someone needs to take care of Emily". Alex appears surprised, but smiles all the same. He wishes me well on my journey, no doubt sure to be a particularly arduous one at this time of day, and continues whatever conversation he was having with the young man beside him.

"I can drive you to the station, if you'd like" George suggests, standing ready to make his move. _He really didn't hate me. Why doesn't he hate me?_

"No, no" I reply courteously, "I can manage". He lingers on his feet for a few moments, before bowing his head and resuming his position on the couch.

I could drive myself down to the train station and ask Alex to walk down to fetch it later. _It would have been quicker with George_ , my brain sees fit to comment. No doubt it would have been, but still I would insist on making it without him.

Hate me or not, I would always insist on making it without him. I didn't deserve his help, no matter how small or trivial that help was.

* * *

I'd only allowed myself to leave Emily once I was confident she'd calmed down. I didn't envy her. Of all my family, she had reacted the worst upon hearing I'd been taken ill last year. Her grades had slipped, and what little confidence she possessed was diminished. Nevin had later told me that he had cussed any doctor or nurse who had mentioned the high chances of my death whilst she was in earshot.

And now her other parent lay in a hospital bed. Thankfully, he was in a much better condition than I had been.

" _Appendicitis_ ". Lionel laughs the word, as though he was amusingly pathetic for developing it. Remarkably bright, he sits upright in bed, idly picking at the hideous hospital gown he had been forced into.

" _Hilarious_ ". I roll my eyes. "It wasn't very funny for Emily."

"I don't doubt it" the man replies, entirely unaffected,  "I'm _fine_. I'm not quite as dramatic as you". I glance at the various tubes running about the room,  guessing at what strange substance ran through them, and why they made Lionel behave as he did.

"Also hilarious" I exhale, "You never told me you had a _wife_ ". The voice I had spoken with over the phone had a very gracious owner. She was quite a bit older than I, but no less pretty, with an air of wisdom about her that was so much greater than my own. She was better than me, and that was fine.

"I wasn't exactly going to invite you along to the wedding" Lionel snorts. He observes the golden ring around his finger proudly. "Four years" he tells me, "I forget how long it's been". _And nine years since our separation._

Many around me found my friendship with Lionel odd. We would never be great friends, but we were at least civil towards one another. I could even go as far as to say I _enjoyed_ his company. Much had happened nine years ago, but, either rightly or wrongly on my part, all faults were forgotten. Besides, it would be extremely hypocritical of me to hold a grudge against Lionel for his betrayal, when I had done wrong too.

_The outer regions of Nairn rarely saw events of great pomposity, and so a number of local people had turned out to bear witness. It's not a royal wedding, my father had grumbled to himself, don't they have better things to do?_

_Evidently not. Even if the presence of so many spectators was slightly irritating, I'd rather be seen by a kind crowd than a hostile one. I forgot how dull the area I'd grown up in was. The forgotten outskirts of a town, hidden amongst hills and fields, in another foggy part of Scotland. The wedding of the daughter of a local celebrity appealed to them._

_"I can't believe you didn't choose the one with the bigger shoulders" Helena sighs, studying my dress with narrowed eyes, "It's 1995". I roll my eyes._

_"Hence why I don't want to look like I'm hankering for 1985" I retort. The one with the bigger shoulders had been dreadful, very much a relic of the last decade. The dress I had chosen was simple, but no less lovely. Nevin had of course remembered to make his usual crude jokes about its colour. I'd smiled when Mother hit him with her handbag._

_"Forgive me" Helena goes on, airily pacing across the room, pretty as a picture in her pink dress, "But you don't look like a bride on the brink of bliss". I can't help but think the same as I stare idly at my own reflection. My hair was fixed neatly, and my make up was immaculate. I'd only look nice on the many photos that were sure to be taken later if I smiled._

_"I'm nervous" I lie. Even Helena could not be deceived by that._

_"Don't be silly" she cusses, eyes narrowing all the more, "What is it? You seemed perfectly happy yesterday". I liked Lionel. He was a good man, very pleasant company, and a good seven years my senior, free of the immaturing that plagued so many men younger than him. Educated, employed, kind. My parents were impressed with the match, yet still I struggled to smile._

_"I did something silly" I admit, knowing my sister would question me all day long unless I did so. With an irritating amount of interest, she perches down on the bed and leans close to me. My mother was busy venting her many fears to one of my aunts, and my father was steadying himself with a stiff drink on the floor below._

_"Getting yourself pregnant at the age of twenty-two and out of wedlock was indeed silly" my sister grins. Again, I roll my eyes. I was quite convinced that it was her near-constant presence during my childhood that had caused me to adopt such a thing. Many considered it rude, but I couldn't help myself._

_"If you won't be serious, I'll keep you in suspense for the entirety of the honeymoon" I warn. Instantly, she shuts up. Confident that I have her attention, I open the top drawer of my dressing table and withdraw a gold locket._

_"I wrote a letter to someone. I thought it was polite, to inform them of all that had gone on, with the wedding and what not" I say, twisting the chain of the locket about my fingers, "I sent this with it. I thought it would be wrong of me to keep it, after I got married, I mean. I thought that it would be better off with its owner". Helena tries to piece together the information dotted throughout what was undeniably babbling._

_"As I recall" Helena responds, taking the locket from me gently, "Its owner is you". She fastens it around my neck and stands back. I had another set of jewellery ready to pair with my dress, but it appeared Helena had other ideas._

_"It was sent back to you. Clearly you're supposed to wear it" she adds. I study it from the reflection in the mirror in front of me. It hadn't dulled, even after all these years. I had wanted it to go dull, as though that would some how tell me that the time I spent with that awkward boy I met at Fenton House in 1988 was over for good._

_"It came back with a letter" I sigh. I don't take it out from the top drawer of my dressing table, as I had done with the locket. I had been for my eyes only. Helena would tear her hair out with curiosity, but I didn't care._

_For once, Helena behaves in a mature manner. She dashes over to fetch my dress and urges me to stand. "Lionel loves you. And you'll love him" she says, tossing the corset I had been dreading so much my way, "Whatever you think that locker means, forget it. It'll look lovely with his dress. Forget about the person who gave it to you". I'm inclined to listen to her. "Think of it differently" she enforces._

_"Think of it as a fine piece of jewellery."_

I make a mental note to myself to remind me to check the contents of my medication. Twice in one day I find myself harking back to memories barely touched upon, and twice I had inadvertently cried afterwards.

"Oh dear" Lionel says, "Is your appendix hurting too?". I dab at the corner of my eyes with a tissue and compose myself before I feel too embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. I've rather a lot on my mind lately". I clear my throat and manage a smile for the man watching me. His expression grows more serious, and in a low voice he reaches out to me.

"I know" he tells me, as though not wanting any one else to hear. No one else knew of what it was he referred to, but he keeps his voice down all the same. I'm grateful for that. But then Lionel pursues another path entirely.

"I know who it was Ed Miliband's girl spoke to at that Telegraph party, when she said you were plotting" he decides to inform me, "He's the same one who handed those letters over to me last year". I had suspected as much. He'd betrayed The Telegraph once before, and so it was no surprise he was willing to do so again. I questioned why William Lewis hadn't caught him yet.

"He's been talking to me very recently, our little informant. Supposedly Lewis still has a great deal of dirt on you" Lionel continues, oblivious to what I know, "A. Mil, he calls himself. A M I L". I try to conceal my laughter as Lionel, aloud, analyses the nickname.

"What?" he asks me, finally noticing my amusement. I was definitely right. I thought it disappointing that Lionel's _mystery_  helper hadn't been more original in choosing an alias for himself.

"A. Mil" I repeat, "An anagram of _Liam_ ". It made perfect sense of me, but Lionel remained clueless. "Liam Downing" I tell him, "I first met him as the son of my local council leader. He does indeed work for The Telegraph, though I get the impression he's not an avid fan". Lionel looks disappointed to have not discovered as much himself. He could at least continue his dealings with _A. Mil_ knowing more about him.

"Well, fancy that" Lionel nods, "There is some goodness in journalism, after all". So many of the reporters and hacks I had encountered over the years had been dreadful. It reassured me to know that there were, albeit few, still decent people occupying Fleet Street.

"I might add" Lionel speaks up, just as I'm beginning to drift into my own thoughts again, "I also know about Alex". I'm forced to look away. I needed no more than a millisecond to work out what it was he referred to. His expression had reverted back to a happy one, and I didn't like to look. _He should be shouting at me_ , I think to myself, _why doesn't he hate me either?_

"I know my intelligence isn't a patch on yours" the man goes on, each word remarkably painful for me, " _But I'm clever enough to recognise that none of my nearest relatives have brown eyes_ ". I cut him off before he can go on. I wouldn't have it stated aloud. It had been agonising to see it acknowledged on paper. I wouldn't tolerate any one, especially Lionel, saying _too_ much.

"I can't understand why you still talk to me" I whisper, making eye contact with anything but Lionel. _Why doesn't he hate me?_ Still he smiled, and it unsettled me all the more. _He ought to hate me_.

"Why are you so eager for people to hate you? No one ever thought you were perfect" Lionel contests, "True, there's a great deal you've kept to yourself, but the same can be said for most people. You've done bad things but you're not inherently a bad person". I often avoided pep talks, but I found Lionel's words did comfort me. I was always waiting for people to hate me. I was always waiting for their opinion of me to sour.

I'd do something or say something that would later come to haunt me. I was incapable of distancing myself from the fact that Iraq, William Lewis and _Alex_ were problems of my own making. I had survived all three, but they had a profound impact on those around me. _Yet those people still refused to hate me_.

"People often say that you were much nicer in the 1990s. _Kinder_ " Lionel reminds me, not alleviating my pain in the slightest, "I disagree. I still think you're kind, just not so kind on yourself". _The problem lies with me_. In Ed's office, after my admittedly petulant decision to abandon my party, I'd thought that perhaps it was not Ed who had changed, but _me_. _I expected people to dislike me, because I disliked myself._

"Have you ever considered being a psychiatrist?" I joke, keen to break the more solemn atmosphere that had descended over the ward. Lionel laughs, before softening his expression when he makes eye contact with someone standing several metres away. I turn in my seat beside his bed and recognise the face of his lovely wife.

"You're lucky to have her" I tell Lionel, sensing my visit had come to an end, "I'm glad you're happy". I give him a kiss on the cheek and rise to my feet. It had been an odd afternoon, but not one that I would regret. It was better to have been here discussing things of importance, I'd decided, than mulling about at home with my whisky, trying to avoid the awkward questions of journalists.

"I hope you find happiness of your own, before too long" is Lionel's reply. I wish him well and leave the ward, making sure I thank his wife for her help in caring for Emily before I disappear.

Up in Oxfordshire, George was busy, carrying out whatever mundane task he'd been charged with now that his morning with Alex was over. Alex himself, no doubt, was enjoying a relaxing afternoon with his new companion, perhaps taking advantage of the peace that my absence provided. Nevin braced himself for marriage, and my the rest of my family went about their usual business.

I could enjoy a quiet few days with Emily. I could ensure that she was kept happy whilst her father stayed in hospital. I could take her shopping and teach her a little of what I could remember from my piano lessons. _I could even attempt to cook for her when she returned from school._

With the cost of the decor in the kitchen in mind, I quickly dismiss the last suggestion. I was never one for cooking. Perhaps I'd find myself spending the next few days ordering takeaways with Emily.

Whatever we did, I knew that while I remained in London, there would always be somewhere I could go to pass the time. I'd be hounded by journalists the moment I stepped foot inside that famous old building, but perhaps some things were more important.

_Parliament really was my distraction._


	98. The View From Afar.

**9th April, 2014.**

**House of Commons, London.**

"ELIZABETH NELSON". Bercow bellows my name across the Chamber, just about heard over the shouting of both sides. Several members occupying the government benches laugh at Ed as I rise to my feet, whilst those closest around me offer their support.

It was odd, to speak to far away from the front. The House appeared very different from such a distance. It was no where near as intimidating from this height, I decided, but came without the sense of satisfaction one got when speaking from the dispatch box. I would never forget the pride had had felt during my tenure as Leader of the Opposition all those years ago, the MPs of my party cheering behind me. A number still cheered, but most were unsure of how to react.

"Thank you, Mr Speaker" I nod, "Despite my status as a _false Scot_ , I am aware of the importance of oil to Scotland's economy". The SNP start to shift in their seats too. There were more advantages to this view than I had first realised. At the dispatch box, I was confronted only by the reactions of those opposite. Now I could see how those who sat behind me reacted.

"Oil is now at an all time low. With this in mind, will the Prime Minister _please_ point the Scottish National Party in the direction of the Financial Times?" I ask, bolstered by sounds of laughter from both sides of the chamber, "And will he also agree, should the Yes campaign win, to support Scotland in its transition and lend Alex Salmond a fiver?"

The SNP jeer at me, but others welcome my question. It was rather cheeky, but it had been dancing on my tongue for quite some time. The question of independence interested me more and more by the day. I was quite tempted, as had been suggested to me before, to get a little more involved.

"I thank the Honourable Lady for her question" David Cameron responds, not bothering to conceal his grin, "I might I say how pleased I am to see her speak again in the House. Her wit and experience are valued on this side of the chamber, even if the same can't be said for her own side". The ministers sat around him nod. The MPs behind him demonstrate their contempt for Ed by gesturing unkindly at him.

There is little movement from the Shadow Cabinet. I can't see Ed's face from where I sit, but imagine his expression is one of mild frustration. I considered approaching him after the session and apologising. I wouldn't ask that my membership be restored, but I would at least apologise.

" _False Scot_ or not". David addresses me directly as he concludes his answer. "I'd be most proud if the Honourable Lady agreed to join me in support of the No campaign. It's a great shame the Leader of the Opposition isn't so accommodating". The Tories sneer at Ed, though I suspect they had already been waiting for another excuse to do so. _I'd definitely apologise at some point_.

"They'd be shitting themselves if you were stood at that dispatch box" Jack Straw whispers to me on my right. I scoff. It wasn't difficult to understand why the press, and indeed Ed's Chief of Staff had suspected I was planning a coup. I had accidentally gathered together supporters for a leadership election I would never fight. _Why do they carry on supporting me?_ By resigning the Labour whip, I'd abandoned them. _I was the traitor_.

"But I'm not stood at the dispatch box" I remind my old friend, "Ed is much better at it than you think". The man splutters on nothing in particular.

"Says the one who left the party because of him" Jack speaks quietly, hints of bitterness lacing his words. His bitterness if not directed at me, but at Ed. _He blamed Ed for robbing him of the leader he'd never have_. If I was correct, Jack would have to remain bitter. I'd never been interested in Downing Street, not in the way he wanted me to be.

"I may have doubts about him, and I may have shouted at him quite a bit when I resigned my membership of the party" I admit, "But I still _care_ for him". Even in my darkest moods, I liked to maintain that _my_ Ed, the one I had been so fond of during the 90s, remained.

"You're much more forgiving than I" Jack mumbles. I didn't yet regret my decision to leave party, though I did regret the manner in which I'd done it. I didn't think I'd been treated fairly by Ed, or by his staff on the many occasions previous to that one, but I wouldn't hold too great a grudge.

"Five more years of this lot" Jack moans, watching the shouting Tories and liberals with disgust, "I'm glad I'm retiring". His eyes then turn back to me. _Retirement_. I knew what it was Jack wanted to ask me, but I wouldn't answer. Mainly because I wasn't actually sure of the answer.

"Unless Ed _does_ win" Jack ponders, more to himself than me. _If_. Even I, having resigned from the party, didn't whisper in such a mutinous. Not only did the backbenches provide me with a decent view of the chamber, it allowed me to overhear the mutterings made by those around me.

 _What if he did win the next general election?_ My differences with him made me instantly assume that he wouldn't be so successful. What if the country began to warm to him? I'd be left looking terribly silly. I always did hate being proven wrong. _Never mind the career of one of your oldest friends_ , my inner voice  scolds, _just keep on thinking of yourself_.

"Am I right in thinking you're due to appear on Newsnight soon?". I'm grateful to Jack for distracting me from the torture of my thoughts. My medication was supposed to slow me down, but in reality did the opposite.

" _Soon_ being this evening" I whisper, wary of catching the eye of Bercow, "I've avoided the media long enough. If I'm going to be pressed on all that's gone by, it's better that _Paxman_ does it". I braced myself for the interview with no small amount of concern. My memory was still recovering, and I hadn't been on television for quite some time. It would be dreadfully embarrassing if my first interview since my near-death was a total flop.

"Do you think he'll go easy on you?" Jack chuckles under his breath. Despite my nerves, I smile.

"I certainly hope not."

* * *

"Can Ed Miliband win a general election?". Paxman makes no attempt to ease me in slowly. Twirling his spectacles about his fingers, right eyebrow raised, he watches me from across his desk. I had the advantage, in that I'd already mentally posed the question earlier in the Commons. Paxman waits for a typical politician's none-answer.

"With the Labour Party as it is now?" I respond, keeping my arms tightly folded over my knees to restrict their shaking, " _No_ ". Higher and higher Paxman's eyebrow creep. Either he was curious as to what Labour needed to do in order to become electable, or he was surprised that I had actually answered the question.

"How can Ed Miliband sort the party out?" he questions, "What is it, in your opinion, that is so flawed about the Labour Party?". I clear my throat and straightened myself up in my seat. I didn't want to appear in any way nervous on camera, even if that was deception.

"Labour is supposed to represent ordinary people. It's therefore important that we do talk about social justice and wages, and so on and so forth" I reply, "But we also need to talk about immigration, and the difficult decisions that need to be made on the economy-". I had expected Paxman to interrupt. It was the first of what was sure to be many interjections.

"These _difficult decisions_. Would those be the same difficult decisions as those proposed by the Tories?" he says. The more he seeks to intimidate me, the less nervous I feel. _I certainly was very glad that he wasn't going easy on me_.

"To a degree, yes. I'm not an advocate of austerity, by any means" I fight back, "But I accept that certainly budgets, such as that of welfare for example, and the ridiculous cost of Whitehall, need to be reduced". Paxman grins.

"So Labour's solution to our economy woes should be ' _let's cut people's benefits and starve them back to work_ '?" he asks, perfectly serene. Even when interviewing my more _difficult_ peers, he rarely lost his temper. He was sharp, yes, but the evasiveness of politicians tended to amuse him rather than irk him.

"Labour's solution should be to discourage dependence on benefits and reduce welfare fairly" I speak with equal serenity, "Therefore providing the incentive needed to stop that dependence". Paxman falls quite for a split second, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he prepared his next barb. I feel confident enough now to realise my previously shaking hands from their stiff position on my knee. _Don't overdo it_ , my inner voice reminds me, _don't appear cocky_.

"Do you not find it difficult to lecture on such things when you yourself are a millionaire?" Paxman shoots, "How much was that dress for instance?". I can't help but laugh. I hoped the angle of the camera made for a decent view of my dress. I had been rather a proud find, after all.

"Do you not find it difficult to question me on wealth acquired neither voluntarily nor dishonestly, when you yourself are so well off?" I challenge, hoping for a slight squirm on Paxman's part, " _How much did that suit cost_?".

"I don't want to be Prime Minister!" Paxman laughs. I liked to think my media skills weren't as rusty as I feared they would be. I imagined the interview would be much more painful had I been eased gently into it.

"Nor do I" I point out, "If you disqualify every MP with more than two pence in their bank account from saying anything in regards to ordinary people, you may as well disband Parliament and introduce a Stone Age barter system". Again, he laughs. I found I was beginning to enjoy myself. After so long hiding, it felt good to be making a stand again. My fouler moods would no doubt return, but for now I could be in high spirits. I felt I deserved that, after the events of the past year or so.

"We spoke to a number of people in preparation for this interview" Paxman moves on, "And from what we've heard, it seems the group who support you most are the Conservatives. Are you planning on defecting?". I think about jokingly mentioning the incident that had taken place earlier in the day, when Kenneth Clarke had shook my hand, for no particular reason, in full view of all those occupying the Commons tea room.

"Absolutely not" I state plainly, "The Tories, I'd imagine, support my decision because they think it destabilises the Labour Party". Any stab at Ed was warmly welcomed by them, no matter where it originated from.

"Was that your aim?" Paxman leaps, "To destabilise your party?". Again, I find myself laughing. I was almost immune to his methods by now.

"I had no particular  _aim_ in resigning my membership of the party" I say, "You'll forgive me, Jeremy, but I've always been under the impression that you only remain a member of something you _support_ ". Paxman's eyebrow cocks up again, but on this occasion he senses an opportunity to back me into a corner.

"So you won't be voting Labour from now on" he says. For the first time since our interview began, I hesitate. Perhaps I wasn't so immune after all. I'd hit the typical Paxman snag. Tripped up after a confident start. Many began to flounder at that point. I was determined to do the opposite.

"I'll vote for whichever local candidate speaks most for me" I offer, still calm. _Would I vote Labour?_ I'd taken such a stand against the state of the party as it was, without really considering what I'd do at the polling booth. I couldn't imagine not voting. _So what would I do?_

"Might that candidate be a Conservative?" Paxman asks. I hesitate again. It was a difficult question to answer, given that I didn't know what exactly that answer was. _No_ , my inner voice sighs to itself, _you're not at all immune_.

"They might well be" I eventually manage. I could suffocate dwelling on the thought. It would take a great deal for me to put my tick next to a Tory name on my ballot paper. A _great_ deal.

"Is it your intention to stand again at the next election?" Paxman goes on, changing tact ever so slightly. Yet another question that I could not answer. The thought of retirement, at least from the Commons, had played on my mind all afternoon. The way Jack talked made it sound most appealing. _But where would I go to vent my frustrations?_

"I'm afraid I don't know" I admit, "I don't know whether I can face another five years of the Commons". I'd rarely given much away to my colleagues in response to the old _retirement_ question. I thought it odd that I had revealed more on television than I had in private conversation.

" _Ms Nelson_ ". Paxman clears his throat and leans further to towards me in his seat. I got the impression he was on the verge of asking something indelicate, something far more personal than issues of petty politics.

"As I already mentioned, we spoke to a number of people in preparation for this interview" Paxman speaks, as unfazed as ever, "One or two commented that you were, quote, ' _heading in the same direction as Charles Kennedy_ '. What might they mean by that?". I shudder. I'd always maintained a high level of respect for Paxman, but this hit too close to the edge for my liking, not only referencing Charles' problem, but suggesting I had a similar one.

"Remind me" I sigh, serenity swapped with mild irratitation, "Where exactly do rumours, spread about by bored MPs, fit into this interview?". Paxman opens his mouth to respond, but I interject before he can. _It would upset him,_ my inner voice thinks gleefully, _to be interrupted after so many years of interrupting_.

"I've been put through an enormous amount over the past twelve months" I add, "I'm talked of as some kind of _Machiavellian plotter_ in the media every other day. I've alienated a number of my colleagues. Various charges of disloyalty have been levelled at me, and now I'm accused of some how being an _alcoholic."_

"I came here tonight to answer _proper_ questions" I warn, "Not worthless dribble like that". Paxman is not impressed by my outburst. Having slipped up slightly, he leans back in his seat and folds his arms. The inteview seems to halt for several moments as he searches for a new point of attack.

" _Iraq_ " he decides. I try my upmost not to roll my eyes, cautious of the many gifs of it that would no doubt turn up on Twitter if I did so.

I felt the worst of the interview was over, and so onto Iraq we went. I thought it came to something when Iraq became an easy subject.

* * *

"Was that you I saw on television, Mother?". Emily emerges from her bedroom, sleepily wiping at her eyes. She was remarkably small for a fourteen year old, and every bit as sweet as her brother. Even if she didn't have Alex's confidence and sense of ease, she was _sweet_.

"It was" I smile. I set the whisky glass I hold down and turn to face her. Across the carpet she plods, sporting her usual pink pyjamas, eventually joining me at the window. Daylight provided with little more than a view of London at its foggiest. It was grey and dull. Night time made for a much more inspiring sight. The lights of the cars below flashed about the street, and all around us were the lights of the millions of buildings scattered about the city.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" I pose, amused by the sight of Emily drifting off even where she stood. Emily forcibly keeps herself awake.

"I can't sleep" she tells me, adding to my amusement, "I keep worrying about Dad". Lionel was by now released from hospital, but stayed at home to give himself time to properly recover. I'd explained to Emily numerous times that appendicitis was easily treated, but she remained quite shaken.

"Your father is going to be absolutely fine" I reassure her, "You can go and stay with him again once he's fully recovered". Emily nestles against my side and gazes off across the skyline of the city.

"Has he fallen out with Alex?" she asks abruptly, "Why don't they speak to one another any more?". I couldn't remember when last Alex had visited Lionel. I didnt regret telling him of how the two of us had come to separate. _I'd deceived Alex enough without lying about the reasons for our divorce_.

Emily, on the other hand, would remain in the dark for quite some time yet. She adored her father, far more than Alex ever had, even when all was right between the two. I wouldn't have her image of him tainted. _Not yet_.

"Alex is very busy" I tell my daughter, keen to dispell any idea that the two disliked one another before it could fester in her mind, "He'll come down and visit when he can". Reality was very different. Alex barely mentioned Lionel.

"He seems to spend much more time with that Mr Osborne" Emily goes on, to my mild discomfort, "He's funny, but he's not Father". I would have shuddered, had I not been holding the girl close. That was another thing I was content to conceal from my daughter. _George_.

"What do you know of Mr Osborne?" I ask, dangerously curious. Hand in hand with Emily's sweetness was a naivety that was not so obvious in Alex. The latter had always been more mature than the former.

"I know that he's the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and that you were a friend of his at university" Emily answers, smiling sleepily. Her eyelids droop occasionally, but still she soldiers on.

"Before Aunt Eva died, she took me to tea with Catherine" my daughter continues, ignorant to the oddity of a Nelson reflecting upon a memory of Eva Smith _fondly_ , "She showed me a rather funny picture of the two of you together". She giggles at the memory of it. I wouldn't scold her that, but I couldn't find it in me to join in. _That photo probably belonged to William Lewis now_.

"Are you still friends?" Emily queries, looking up at me with tired eyes. I push a stray hair from her face and hold her all the more closely. _How could I possibly be the parent of one so innocent?_ I prayed that Emily would remain sweet. I'd been witness to so many lies and corruptions, some of them of my own orchestration, in life, that I wanted her to never be changed by any of them.

"No, we're not friends" I sigh, the dancing lights of the London skyline losing their shine somewhat, "Not really". In defiance, the locket around my neck continues to glitter in the dim lighting of the lounge. After so many years, I'd expected it to dull. _It really was as a fine piece of jewellery_.

"Do you think he has a view as good as this from Downing Street?" Emily asks, captivated by the view before her despite her obvious fatigue. I laugh. I knew the view from No. 11 to be considerably less diverse, limited to either the grey stone of the front of the street on one side or the rose garden at the back on the other.

"I doubt that very much" I tell her, feeling her lean further and further into my side as sleep threatened to finally take her. I scoop her up, as best as my feeble arms can, and carry her to bed. By the time I leave her room, she's snoring.

And so I am free to return to my whisky, and my increasingly dull view. There were few lights dotted about the city now, and the flashing of those from the cars on the streets below grew repetitive. I suspected I'd make a break for Oxfordshire again before too long.

Slowly, I was clawing my way back from misery. I'd stopped bursting into tears at random intervals, and my anxieties were steadily fading. It was true that the opinion I held of myself remained low, and still I drank too much, but I got the impression I was making _some_ progress.

When all of that which plagued me was gone from memory, and my heart had recovered from its heavy trauma, perhaps the view before me would _stay_ beautiful.

Perhaps the view would only _stay_ beautiful when I was content. In a year's time, would I still stand an MP? Would I still be without a party? _Would the locket about my next remain untouched by age?_


	99. The Wedding.

**10th April, 2014.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

My mood was kept buoyant by the event of a wedding. Smile broad on his bearded face, Nevin had strode into the church, Best Man in tow, looking really rather dapper in a fresh three-piece suit. I hadn't seen him so happy since childhood.

"Do you think she's pregnant?" Helena whispers to me, nodding over to where Fraser's own wife stood, shielding her lips with a delicate hand. I roll my eyes at my younger sister as she studies our sister-in-law's stomach from a distance. Anna was a lovely woman of Norwegian descent, who had given my brother two equally lovely children. She'd done nothing to invoke the curiosity of Helena. Helena had always been indiscriminate in her assassination of people.

"If you could perhaps refrain from gossiping until the service is over" I advise. I glance about the church, taking note of the many people now packed and trying to work out how many I knew. Some were old faces from Scotland, others new allies formed through Nevin's election to the county council.

"They look nervous". Helena's observations continue with the unsuspecting members of Claire's family. They shift about in their seats across the aisle, glancing nervously at Nevin's guests. Just like Claire, the family were kind, earthly people.

"It's probably a bit grand for them" Helena drawls on, "We should try and introduce them to the Duke of Westminster at the reception-". I cut her off before I lose my temper with her. I wouldn't have Nevin's day ruined by an argument between the two Nelson sisters.

"And I'm sure the Duke would be delighted to meet them" I say curtly, "Unlike some, he's always been very _humble_ ". Helena flicks a stray hair from her shoulder and lifts her nose just that little bit higher towards the ceiling. After several moments of quiet, I begin to believe that she's shut up for good.

"I just realised-". And so onto a new tangent leaps, causing me to audibly groan. I'd asked my mother before entering the church if she would sit between the two of us, but she only tutted at me. _You're sisters,_ she had said, _you'll sit beside one another_. Being family of the groom made my position no better. I was effectively trapped at the very front of the church will Helena for the entirety of the service.

"I'm the last to be married" my sister grumbles, "Everyone has found their perfect match, expect for me". Again, I roll my eyes. I make a mental note to myself not to do so again, as I catch sight of my mother glaring at me.

"I haven't found my _perfect match_ either" I remind her. I was content alone. I only hoped Helena would be too, when she reached my grand old age.

"Don't be such a plank. You met your match _decades_ ago" Helena sighs, sounding thoroughly bored, either with me or her marital status, "And once you've stopped being so ignorant and given Parliament up, you'll probably find yourself walking along this aisle yourself". I blink at her, bemused by her prophecy. I had always found my sister rather tiring, but I had to admire her for the way in which she refused to mince her words.

"Point me in the direction of a soft, simple creature who flatters me unfailingly and is hopelessly in love with me" my sister drones on, picking at the order of service she holds, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

"Hello, Liz". A gentle voice greets me to my left. I lean forward to look past my mother and see Douglas, usual black suit traded for a grey one. I was vaguely familiar with something he and my brother had worked on together as part of a wider cross-party team. Nevin must have been in a very good mood indeed, if Douglas had ended up with a _wedding_ _invitation_.

A smile creeps onto my lips when I glance back in the direction of Helena. "Douglas" I say, "Might I introduce my mother". I gesture to the always elegant lady sat beside me and wait whilst Douglas takes the time to formally introduce himself. They speak only fleetingly, but in that short moment I get the impression that my mother was terribly impressed with my colleague. _Good manners make for a good man_ , she had always said.

"I'd also like to introduce my sister, Helena" I say, gesturing to the woman on my other side. My sister looks up at the mention of her name.

"A pleasure to meet you" Douglas smiles. My smile turns to a smirk when I begin to notice the way Helena studies him. _A soft, simple creature, capable of unfailingly flattery and pathetic devotion_. I might not find the man attractive, but I understood now that not everyone would feel the same way.

When Douglas has gone, disappearing amongst the many rows at the back of the church, Helena falls quiet. And, more importantly, she _stays_ quiet.

"Oh, I do hope this all works out" Mother mutters from my side. She takes hold of my hand for support and squeezes it as though it's some form of stress ball. I don't cuss her for it, but instead patiently listen to the fears she had been harbouring ever since Nevin announced his engagement.

"I know we shouldn't speak ill of the dead, especially today, but Claire is so much more pleasant than Eva Smith ever was" I admit to her, "I do think he'll be happy this time". He certainly appeared to be happy, for he stood ready at the altar, chatting animatedly with his Best Man.

The church falls quiet when the single note of an organ sounds out. We all rise to our feet instinctively, startled ever so slightly for the creaking of the church doors as they are opened up. Silence is replaced by the pleasant tones of Handel's Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, and in walks Claire, as pretty as could be in a gown of white.

"Oh, but she looks beautiful" my mother weeps, holding a silken handkerchief close to her face, "Oh, please let this all work out".

Nevin glances around to see his bride, aging eyes lighting up at the sight of one so flawless. The final note of the organ is played, and we resume our seats.

And so a new marriage begins, and even in those early moments I can tell that this one will indeed work out.

* * *

I fought the urge to withdraw my phone and record the spectacle before me with every fibre of my being. My mother had already warned myself, and indeed the many other guests who found their eyes drawn, against recording anything. It wouldn't make for an overly significant story, but it was damn funny.

In a corner of the room, in the middle of a space intended for the new couple's first dance, dances David Cameron. Along to the beat of Duran Duran he bobs, flailingly his arms at random intervals and thrusting his hips in a disturbing manner with every crash of a cymbal. Five glasses of champagne had led to the sight before me. I was thankful to be sober enough to see it.

"Don't him forget this, will you?" I whisper to Samantha Cameron, who sports an expression of both horror and amusement. The woman shakes her head. " _Never_ " she assures me. I thought it a great shame that the Cameron children weren't in attendance. They would tease him relentlessly about his little _jig_ at every family dinner for the next decade, at least.

"Do you know where Helena has got to?" I ask my cousin's wife, tearing my eyes away front David for the first time in several minutes. The room was far too crowded for me to spot her. Samantha giggles behind her hand and leans close to me to whisper something in my ear. I almost spill my drink. Douglas, it seemed, had found a Nelson prepared to love him after all.

"Someone told me that Ed Miliband was invited" Alex muses to my left, sipping at his champagne with mild distaste. Nevin and Ed had been friends of sorts at university, but hadn't spoken to one another for many years. Whilst Douglas, err, _embraced_ the Nelsons, Ed appeared to rebuke them.

"George wanted to be here, but he's otherwise engaged" Samantha adds. Nevin had always got on very well with George. Then again, Nevin got on well with most of the Cabinet.

"That looks rather fun" I hear Michael Gove say. We all turn just in time to see him bound towards David, only to slip straight onto his behind the minute he attempts to copy my cousin's truly original moves.

"Mad" Samantha mumbles to herself, walking away with a dazed expression, "Completely mad". For several moments longer Alex and I watch David, amazed by his stamina despite his age.

"I hope he dances so energetically at my wedding" Alex comments casually. I arch an eyebrow. Isaac was about somewhere, a special guest of my son's that Nevin had been only too happy to welcome into the fold. "Aren't you a bit young for such things?" I query.

"I don't mean to get married _next week_ " Alex corrects, "But now that my sort _can_ get married, I figured I may as well take advantage". With the new year had come the official introduction of same-sex marriage. Just as the Bill had provided me with some well-desired joy, its enactment provided me with just as much.

"I wouldn't mind if you remarried, Mother" Alex sees fit to tell me. It was a kind gesture, but I thought the chances of me marrying again were slim. I'd married early, and divorced early. As a result, I was now left to live out the latter part of my life alone.

 _Just as I'd entered politics early and was now forced to watch my career end at a time when most were only just beginning theirs_.

 _No_ , I tell myself sternly, wary of drifting deeper and deeper into my own thoughts, _I wouldn't depress myself today_.

"I doubt any one would want to marry an aging _traitor_ like me" I jest. Alex chuckles into his glass and jerks his head. "I'm not too sure of that" he says. I give my son a fond peck on the cheek and allow him to disappear to reclaim his own beloved.

Nevin talks happily with his new wife, who hadn't stopped smiling all afternoon, with my mother beaming in the direction of the two. Fraser and his family enjoy a quiet moment, occasionally pointing at the more oddly dressed guests in their bizarre hats to amuse themselves. I hadn't a clue where Helena was, but imagined she was probably enjoying herself all the same.

I set my glass down and approach the chair upon which I'd set my blazer down. It was far too warm to wear such a thing in here, no matter how well it worked with my dress. The church hadn't exactly been cold, either, but it gave me the means necessary to hide my cigarettes.

It was a poor habit to maintain for one still recovering from a cardiac arrest, but I found they helped me to cope. They relaxed me, and softened my guilt. And so, with my family and friends distracted, I sneak outside.

A couple of other guests hang about around the edges of the building, some drunk, some puffing away on cigarettes of their own, nodding their heads along to the beat of The Jackson 5, which I had seen David enjoying a great deal before I left.

"Who is this, then?" one of Nevin's old RBS colleagues snorts, nodding towards the tinted black car that rolled up close. It was official-looking, very similar to the sort I'd been driven around when during my time at Cabinet. "I bet it's Prince Harry" one woman speculates, slurring most of her words.

"No, no" the RBS man states, gesturing lazily towards the now-still car, "It's Prince William".

It's not a prince, nor a royal of any kind, but a _George_. Out of the car he hops, still in the process of fixing his tie. He sported one of a brighter blue than was normal, a rather pathetic attempt to adapt his usual Treasury garb to the occasion. He doesn't bother to adapt his expression, however, for he scales the steps leading up to the door of building with solemnity.

I thought it odd, for me to be in a merry mood and he a bad one. I was sure he would have walked past me had I not called out to him. The alcohol I had already consumed allowed me to forget whatever discomfort I usually felt in his company.

"Sam told me that you wouldn't be coming" I say. George continues to fiddle with his tie. His expression certainly wasn't one of a guest at a joyous event. Yet his ongoing struggle with his tie suggested he'd hurried up to Oxfordshire and hadn't properly prepared.

"I finished my work early" George informs me, "I'm sorry to have missed the service, but I'm here now". I smile. I knew Nevin would be pleased to see him. And Mother's reaction upon seeing after so long would no doubt be quite the picture. I couldn't work out whether I was glad to have him with us.

I forget about my cigarettes for the time being and turn back in the direction of the building's entrance. I didn't have to linger, but I could at least reintroduce him to everyone. "I can-."

"I can manage myself, thank you" George tells me shortly. He gives me a nod, before disappearing inside. He was definitely in worse mood than I. Even in the days of the early 1990s, I had been the grumpier of the two of us.

I was healing, albeit slowly. George's mood seemed only to be getting worse. I didn't know what exactly kept him down, and I didn't expect him to tell me. Even if he didn't hate me, he didn't particularly _like_ me. As I had pointed out to Emily, we weren't really friends these days.

I light my cigarette and lean against the wall of the building, listening calmly to the voice of Elton John that plays out from within. I wondered what dance David could invent for the song, and whether or not it would be enough to get George to actually _smile_.

* * *

By the time night reached the reception, the party had quietened down. Many guests had returned to their hotel rooms. An even greater number had failed to make it that far, instead slumped over their tables, without dignity but still content in their sleep.

Nevin and Claire had left for Scotland, a less than sunny location for a honeymoon, but one that they were very much set on. Mother had retired to bed, as had Fraser's family. The remaining Nelsons sat together at a table that provided a decent view of the dancefloor. _Still_ David went on, inventing as many dance moves as he could before the effects of his champagne wore off.

"I don't know where he finds the energy" Fraser ponders, fighting back laughter as our cousin attempted to adopt a more reserved routine to fit with the gentle Your Song by Elton John.

"Bubbly is _magic_ " Helena tells her twin, pouring herself yet another glass, "It's how Douglas and I kept-". I lower her glsss and take the bottle away from her.

"That's quite enough, thank you" I caution, shaking away m the disgusting thoughts that Helena had attempted to plant into our minds.

"I'll get them to put Elvis on for you, Liz" David slurs, waving at me. I smile weakly and watch, with no small amount of pain, as he attempted to shimmy along to the man charged the evening's music. It was quite an experience for the poor chap, to see the Prime Minister shaking himself about as though he were twenty again.

"Is he the one with the saxophone?" Helena mumbles, attempting to climb up onto the table and take the champagne bottle from me. Fraser takes her gently by the wrist and lowers her down. "I think it's time for bed" he tells her, still fighting to contain his amusement. I watch as he leads his sister away, supporting her as best he could as she sways too and fro.

I stand up and set the champagne bottle down alongside the other bottles that remain in the corner of the room. I check my watch. 8:30. Alex and Isaac had gone to bed quite some time ago, bored of the ridiculous drunkenness of the toffs downstairs and instead seeking entertainment in board games. It was a simple way to spend one's time, but a pleasant one.

It wasn't late, but the day's events, and the small amount of alcohol I had consumed had made me wary. I head in the direction of the stairs, but stop when I notice George approaching in the corner of my eye.

"Is your sister alright?" he asks, tie now slightly askew. I hadn't seen much of him during the evening, but I liked to think he had enjoyed himself, even if was only _slightly_.

"There you go, Liz!" David screeches across the room. Whilst George struggles to understand the manic dancing of his friend, I close my eyes and let myself be lost in the wonderful voice of Elvis Presley. He was more creature of my mother's generation, but I'd grown up on his records. The song that my cousin so gracefully danced to was Can't Help Falling in Love With You, a particular favourite of mine.

"Would you dance with me? George asks, catching me entirely by surprise. I can't help but look back at David. "So long as your idea of dancing doesn't look like that" I reply.

My happiness remained, as well as the mild fuzziness that my consumption of champagne had given me. I'd no doubt look upon this moment with a feeling great unease in a week or so, but for now I could enjoy it.

Neither of us are any good, I not sober enough to control myself properly and George clueless about dancing, but we manage, _slowly_. Watching David wiggle about like a bee on steroids had given me a headache.

"I'm sorry for snapping earlier" George apologises, reminding me of our less than polite introduction, "I've rather a lot on my mind, lately". Oh, how I related to  that.

"I know the feeling" I sigh, "Though I'd imagine being the Chancellor of the Exchequer is a great deal more stressful than trying to restrain my sister". George smiles, but only very slightly. I'd forgotten how _thin_ he was now. He hadn't looked so gaunt in his chubbier form.

"It's not just that" George tells me. It wasn't a particularly cheerful thing to talk about at a wedding reception, but I decide to mention it anyway.

"I heard about the divorce" I tell him quietly, recognising it as a personal matter, "I'm very sorry, George". George's expression hardens all the more. I wouldn't ask for the full story of how it had come to be. Not only was it none of my business, the memory of it clearly made George no happier.

"An apt thing to talk about at a wedding" he pokes, expression still solemn. I do what little I feel I can do in the circumstances.

"I know how you feel" I seek to assure him, remembering well how I had felt after my own divorce. I had eventually become a friends with Lionel again, and he in then had been able to find a new wife, one who loved and cared for him far more than I could ever do.

"I don't think you do" George swipes, voice regaining its sharpness. The song approaches it end, and finally it seems David begins to lose steam. I'm tempted to walk away and leave George to attend to him, but decide against it when he gives me his second apology of the night.

"Sorry" he repeats, stepping closer as though fearing I might not hear him otherwise. I couldn't blame him for his irritation, when I had behaved much in the same way over the years.

"Perhaps you _do_ hate me after all" I joke, keen to look for a window into a more cheerful conversation.

"Don't be silly" George says, offering me a genuine smile for the first time all evening, " _I could never hate you_ ". We dance for a while after the song has finished, discussing both the important and the unimportant, with the odd funny anecdote thrown in. It was a nice way to spend an evening.

Tomorrow, no doubt, George would be miserable again, and I'd be as wary about him as I had been previously. But for now, at least, we could pretend we were friends again.


	100. Loose Ends.

**15th April, 2014.**

**House of Commons, London.**

For the first time in months, the press were not reporting on some alleged coup that I was organising, but on what I was actually _saying_. My column in The Times had been restored, and I'd taken the leap and gone back on Question Time again. I'd been invited to various institutes and banks across the country to give speeches and attend dinners. _Like a proper backbenche_ r. I might be a _traitor_ , but I was at least a _traitor in demand_.

"You're much happier these days" Charles remarks, leaning back in the seat opposite my desk. I'd hired new staff to manage my affairs, and started becoming more involved with constituents again. "I'm not sure what's brought it on" I admit, "But I do indeed feel much better". I didn't depress myself by dwelling on the poor standing of my old party, and no longer beat myself up about the mistakes I'd made. _It's done_ , I'd come to remind myself, _get over it_.

"You'll still take drinks with me in the bar, I hope" Charles fishes.

"I'll join you, but I think I'll be ordering _water_ from now on" I tell him. He chokes on his tea and stares at me with wide eyes.

"You've gone barmy" he shakes his head. Perhaps it wouldn't _always_ be water, but I wouldn't over-indulge. I wonder whether I should also tell Charles that I was in the process of giving up smoking, but decide one shock is probably enough for today.

"People seem to like you much more now that you're an independent" Charles observes, "Where will I see you next, I wonder. Andrew Marr? _QI_?"

"You've seen my schedule, then?" I wink. Charles readily mocked me for my media appearances. I didn't mind. It was refreshing to have actually have some after such an enormous amount of time hidden away from the public. There were, of course, engagements I'd rejected. A charity version of Strictly Come Dancing hadn't really captured my interest. I'd of course suggested Ed Balls' name as a substitute.

My phone buzzes loudly in my pocket. Id considered turning it off all to together, but was told by my new secretary that doing so wouldn't be wise. My position apparently meant that I needed to be contactable at all times. I couldn't imagine any one needing me so desperately.

"Perhaps it's Stephen Spielberg" Charles says with an expression of mock awe, "Wanting to make a film about your life". I give him the middle finger as he collects his coat and makes for the door.

"Ms Nelson?" a vaguely familiar voice speaks.

"Who am I speaking to?" I politely inquire. Their tone was a relatively serious one, causing me to worry ever so slightly. I was always cautious such mysterious voices.

"Owen, Chief Constable of Thames Valley" the voice informs me, "Or at least I _was_ ". Darker and darker his voice goes. There's bitterness in it now. I'm reminded instantly of how he had helped me, now quite some time ago, in finding out more about the Campion girl.

"How can I help you?" I ask tentatively.

"I remember you asked me about Angela Campion quite some time ago" the man says, "I've been demoted since then, but I still _hear_ things". Jonathan had reprimanded me at the time for ' _taking unfair advantage of my contacts_ '. Owen had warned at the time that his superiors  wouldn't appreciate him disclosed such important information. It bothered me to think that _I_ had been responsible for his demotion.

"She's been moved. She was at Broadmoor, but I'm told she's at Maudsley" the man goes on. I knew Maudsley Hospital was a mere thirty minutes away. I didn't fear her any more, but the memories she evoked sent shivers down my spine.

"Why are you telling me this?" I question. I presumed Owen still worked, in some capacity, for the police. I was sorry to hear he was no longer Chief Constable, but I feared for his current position now that he was once again relaying sensitive information to me.

"I just thought you ought to know" the man speaks, frustration with his position evident in his voice, "It's not as though I can be demoted any further". I struggle to condense my guilty into words.

"Thank you" I manage, "If there's anything I can-."

"There's no need" Owen exhales from the other end of the line, "But thank you". And then the call is ended, I'm left staring blankly at my phone. He sounded most pitiful. I would have liked to have repay him in some way, but he didn't seem to want my help. _I'd probably interfered enough_.

 _Maudsley_. It was so _near_. I hadn't asked to be kept aware of the Campion girl's movements. I'd barely thought about her these past few months. Thinking on her for too long would dampen my spirits. Yet I still refused to forget that she was so near.

I glance about my desk. I had no constituency work to focus on, and no debates I felt any great desire to attend. I had no great desire to see the Campion girl, either, but, for some reason that I could not explain, I got the feeling I was _supposed_ to see her regardless.

The old Chief Constable had told me only randomly, but now I was beginning to wonder whether there was a _reason_.

I could spare thirty minutes. Perhaps I'd be allowed to speak with her, and pose the questions that had pressed on my mind relentlessly after the events of last August. I wouldn't allow myself to be depressed by her, not now.

No, I'd simply talk to her, and then l association with her could be forgotten, and I could complete my recovery out of her shadow. What was the harm in tying up one or two loose ends?

* * *

Maudsley was not a very pleasant place, and for good reason. It was not as terrifying as mental hospitals were often thought to be, but being led through one of its many blindingly white corridors under close guard _unnerved_ me.

"You've come at an ideal time" a doctor smiles, "She seems very stable today". Little was disclosed to be regarding her health, but I had been warned before entering the building that the move to Maudsley had left the Campion girl slightly shaken.

"Please don't provoke her" the doctor requests, pausing at one of the many doors we passed as we made our way along the corridor. I take a deep and brace myself. The door is opened, and, with the doctor in tow, I step inside.

It's a reasonably airy room, with perfectly white walls and a small but effective window built in near to the ceiling.

At a table in the corner of the room sits a strikingly thin young woman, blonde hair falling about her face in loose strands, eyes encircled by dark rings. She was every bit as gaunt as I remembered her, but she no longer _glared_ at me as she had done previously.

The doctor takes the seat nearest to her, whilst I take the other, forcing myself to shake off all worry I felt. Glare or not, I still felt intimidated by her.

"Are you going to hurt me?" the girl asks, ever so slightly cowering in her seat. I might have wanted to in the past, but I felt no such anger now. Only intimidation and _pity_.

"No" I tell her simply. I thought it best to let her lead the conversation. I wouldn't provoke her, as the good doctor advised.

"I was in your house" the Campion girl mumbles on, "And _he_ followed me". I prevent myself from lingering too much on the memories I had of that awful night.

"Rob?" I ask patiently, "Your brother?". I hadn't seen Rob since that particular. What little knowledge I had of his whereabouts came from my mother. She'd taken pity on him in the wake of Ian's death, and offered to support him. If only I'd done the same.

"No" the Campion girl replies, " _William_ ". The doctor bows his head sadly. It was quite easy, in the complications of all that had gone by, to forget where my dealings with the Campion family had originated from. Had I been a better Defence Secretary, I might have done more to protect William Campion's life, therefore avoiding a great deal of stress and bother.

 _You're getting better_ , my inner voice sharply reminds me, t _here's no point in thinking about this now_.

"I overheard my parents speaking. They mentioned you, that they'd been to see you" the girl recalls, expression vacant, "And then they said that William was gone. And I heard Rob mention you again. And then I _knew_ ". She looks up at me with tired eyes. That's all they are. Not hateful or cold, just _tired_.

"What did you know?" I ask quietly, cautious of saying too much in case I made her snap. The doctor present looked between the two of us with a fascinated expression. He'd only allowed me to speak with her in the hope that the conversation might prove healthy for her brain. Her recovery would be a trickier one than mine.

"I missed William. I wanted to be with him, but I couldn't find him. I was scared" the Campion girl continues, "I knew I wanted you to be scared too. That way, you might understand. And then you'd do something to get him back". The doctor shifts in his seat, wary of taking the conversation too far.

'I knew I wanted you to be scared too'. That would explain the threats she had sent to me, and the menacing way in which she had looked me whenever I crossed paths with her. "Rob got me that job, at Parliament, but _you_ were there" she speaks, "I didn't want to hurt you. I just wanted you to be scared, like me". I find I believe her.

"And then I got the sack, and I found myself in Oxfordshire again, and William _still_ wasn't back". I let her talk. I was as fascinated as the doctor. I hadn't needed to ask any questions, in the end, for she was automatically answering them for me.

"A woman came to me before I was sacked. She said she knew how to frighten you. So I stole things from your office" the Campion girl _adds. So that was how she came to work with Eva Smith_. One of the questions I had mused on was how the two had come together against me.

"She sent those things to a man at a newspaper, but none of it worked. You still weren't scared" she admits. That wasn't entirely true. The threats didn't frighten me initially, but the more I got, the more they bothered me. It was the gradual intimidation from The Telegraph that had affected me most.

"She said she wanted out of our arrangement. I didn't know what to do. I thought she might betray me. So I slipped too many painkillers into her coffee". Her eyes widen slightly as she speaks. The doctor reaches out cautiously, ready to take her if need be. I can't help but flinch when the Campion girl talks of Eva Smith. ' _I slipped too many painkillers into her coffee'_. It was a frightening thought.

"They tried to get me, but I escaped. You still weren't scared" the girl before me concludes, "So I went to your house. I would never have hurt you. I just wanted you to be scared, as I was. William never came back until that night. He told me that I was wrong, _but I just wanted you to understand_ ". The more I thought on it, the more I thought I _could_ understand.

A moment of silence falls over the room as each of us processes what has been said. Clearly I _was_ supposed to come here. I wasn't a great believer in fate, but I got the impression I was supposed to talk to the Campion girl.

 _I felt sorry for her_. There was no anger in her now, only quiet sorrow. I'd always thought her contempt for me was fuelled by the belief that I had caused her brother's death. Now I saw her attempt to scare me were more a cry for help, than acts of revenge. She'd wanted to teach me a lesson. _I now considered myself taught_.

Even the way in which I referred to her needed to change. _The Campion girl_ was so impersonal a nickname. I dismiss it from my vocabulary and instead remind myself of her real name. _Angela_.

"Do you hate me?" Angela asks, voice barely above a whisper. She looks up at me with sad eyes. There's something in her at that very moment that reminded me of myself. _I too expected people to hate me for the ways in which I'd wronged them_.

I treat Angela as I'd been treated. "No" I reply in earnest, " _I don't hate you_ ". She stares, eyes wide, at me for quite some time, as though quietly assessing whether or not I was telling the truth. _She couldn't understand it_. I could only hope she would in time.

"I think I'd like to go to bed now" Angela tells the doctor. He gives her a kind smile and rests his hand on her own. "Yes" he agrees, helping her to her feet and towards her bed, "And then you'll be rested in time for your brother's visit". The mention of Rob seems to calm her. It was pleasing to know that he still saw her. I didn't know where the other Campion had got to, but I was grateful to him for keeping his sister afloat.

As I'm taken from the room and led back through the corridors of the hospital, I reflect on how great a shame it was that Owen had not allowed me to help him. I left Angela's room feeling considerably lighter. _My visit gave me the closure I needed to make a full recovery_. I'd never have gone had Owen not tempted me to.

I exit the building and turn in the direction the car park. I spot a man hurrying along in the opposite direction. Fate really was smiling down on me today. Perhaps I would rest my head tonight having tied up more than one loose thread.

"Rob?" I ask, squinting at the man as he approaches. My suspicions are confirmed when he stops abruptly in his tracks. He too looks tired, but for different reasons. He was thinner than he had been when last I saw him, and now his hair was flecked with grey.

" _Ah_ " he answers quietly, "Elizabeth". He gives me a small nod and remains still in his spot. The rising optimist in me guesses at the chances of the two of us being reconciled at some point. It would take a great deal, but I hoped we'd get there, at least for Ian's sake.

"How have you been?" I ask, briefly looking him up and down. He'd never been immaculate, but he did look slightly more dishevelled than was usually the case. He'd escaped the car crash on that awful night in 2013 with a few broken bones. I wondered if he, like me, was still recovering.

"Okay. I'm _okay_ " Rob assesses, "And how about you? You look well".

"I'm certainly getting better" I agree. I was far from socially inept, but I find I have very little to say in this particular conversation. The _reconciliation_ I had decided upon would be as tricky as anticipated.

"I visited you in hospital, while you were in a coma" Rob tells me, tearing his eyes away from whatever had so captivated him on the ground, "Osborne was there, so I didn't stay long, but I just felt I _should_ see you. I'm glad to see you're better". I hadn't been aware of a visit from George. As far as I was aware, the only people who had been permitted to visit me during my _sleep_ were family, with Charles and Gordon friendly exceptions. Even if George hadn't hated me, I couldn't understand why he'd waste his time sitting with me.

"Thank you" I smile, pushing aside all consideration of George for the time being, "If ever there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask". Owen had refused my help, but I wouldn't let Rob do the same. _Our reconciliation had to begin somewhere._

Rob smiles in return and carries on towards the entrance of the hospital. Before he can disappear inside, I call out to him once more. "And, Rob?" I speak, "If ever you're in Henley and in need of a cup of tea, by all means call by". The man's smile broadens, and then he is gone.

 _Tea_. My mother would approve very much. I hadn't taken the time to understand when Ian was alive. I thought it a decent tribute to his memory by starting now.

Another conversation, and another weight lifted from my shoulders. I was definitely supposed to come here. And as I climb back into my car, my mind drifts off onto possibilities new. _How many other loose ends could I tie before the day was done?_

* * *

"Well, thank _fuck_ for that". Charles raises his pint aloft and flashes a relieved grin my way. "Never again do I have to listen to you rant on about the bloody _Campions_ ". I sake a sip of my water and roll my eyes.

"They're decent people" I enforce, "But yes, you're right. It seems I'm done with them once and for all". I'd certainty give Rob his promised cup of tea, but I saw no sign of a further feud developing between the two of us. _Finally, the war had ended_.

"What's next, then?" Charles sighs contentedly, "House of Lords? Memoirs?". I can't help but chuckle. I could make up my mind about my future in the Commons at another time. For now, _I'd enjoy myself_.

"A referendum on Scottish independence" I reply. Charles arches an eyebrow at me, no doubt surprised to hear a Scottish colleague mention it without groaning. "So you're entering the fray after all" he smiles, "Prepare yourself for a tough scrap, lass". The polls were another thing I could think about later. We had time still to save the union.

"I'll find myself a suit of armour" I joke. Charles downs what is left of his beer and sets the empty glass down on our table. He tips the remaining water in my own glass onto the cracked tiles of the terrace and gets to his feet.

" _Water_ " he tuts, "It's been a good day. You can have at least _one_ stiff drink". I don't refuse him. I laugh quietly to myself as he disappears into the bar. The warmer months approached, and the strains of coalition were beginning to show. As a result, a heavy queue had formed about the bar itself. I suspected Charles would be waiting for quite some time.

I take advantage of the peace of the terrace and walk up to the low wall that surrounds it. The Thames remained murky and foul, but looked oddly pretty with the lights of the city dancing upon it. _My old phone was in there somewhere_. I crack up at the memory. I turn and try and scope out the window of my old office amongst the many lining the walls of the building. It's only when I turn around that I notice I'm not alone at all. In the shadows a man lurks, a stranger to the bar but not to me.

"I didn't think I'd see you here" I call out, inviting George to step out of the shadows and join me. As predicted, he had remained as happy as he had been at the wedding. Misery looked irritatingly familiar on him now.

"I like the view" he says, joining me at the wall, hands tucked deep inside his pockets, "Besides, it's usually quite peaceful at this time of night". I can hear the cackling of MPs inside.

"Perhaps not entirely peaceful" I titter, "Is my cousin _really_ that noisy a neighbour?". I wait for George to laugh, to reply with one of his usual witticisms, but he makes no attempt to respond. He can only look blankly down at the dirty waters of the Thames, entirely preoccupied by whatever played on his mind.

"I bumped into Rob Campion earlier" I say, steering our attempted conversation elsewhere, "You never told me you'd visited me in hospital". I mention it not as a serious detail, but with mild curiosity. I was indeed curious about his presence as my bedside. I thought it an odd thing to do, so soon after the extent of my deception had been revealed.

"I didn't think it was important" George replies, "It was difficult, after everything that had happened, but I wanted to be there. Even if you _insisted_ on me hating you, I couldn't". I wanted to make a witty remark of my own, but find nothing that would suit. I realise I had never really taken the time to discuss the events of that, as I commonly referred to it, _awful night_ with George. I had chosen to brush it all from my memory. I didn't know how exactly George had dealt with it all.

"I _wanted_ to hate you" he whispers, catching me by surprise, "I thought you'd set me free that night, but ten days later when I found myself sitting at your beside, I realised I wasn't free at all". For a terrace so large, I felt _trapped,_ backed into a corner that did not exist. It had been an odd, but no less _good_ day. I feared George was teetering on a topic too heavy for a good day. I was content for this particular loose end to remain loose.

"How profound you're becoming in your old age" I jest. Still, no reaction. I glance over my shoulder and wait for Charles to emerge.

"I wanted to hate you for not letting me go" George continues, dark eyes still fixed on the murky waters below. _Perhaps he'd found my phone._

"I've tried to ignore it, but it simply won't go away" he grumbles, angry with himself rather than me, "Even Frances couldn't distract me from it in the end. She deserved better". Despite my own experience of divorce, I'm unsure of how to console him. I didn't know what exactly George so desperately wanted to escape. Rather like in my meeting with Angela Campion, I'd withhold my questions for now and _listen_.

"I thought my work might distract me, but all it's made me is _miserable_ " he goes on, hunching over slightly now. My mind abandons suggestions of _listening_ and instead searches for ways to lighten the situation. Against my better judgement I make another attempt. " _That's austerity for you_ ".

" _Listen_ to me" George snaps, finally making eye contact with me. I stop pratting about and do as he asks. I'd have to contain myself, as I had done with Angela Campion.

"I've done a lot of thinking since Frances left" he speaks, voice still quiet, "I've begun to realise that I'll never _really_ be free of you". He made me feel as though I were a foul ghost, always hovering over his shoulder. Or perhaps a weight around his neck? I'd spent the day shaking off mine.

"It's like that stupid locket" George sighs, prompting me to reach up and hold it between my fingers, shielding it from him, "You still wear it. It never goes dull, _and you still wear it_ ". Something familiar grows in his eyes now. Frustration and misery were replaced by something that made me want to look any where else. _Longing_.

 _Try and say something funny_ , my inner voice yelps in panic. I wasn't sure how much more I could listen to. With every passing moment, the terrace grew smaller and smaller. _Find Charles_ , the voice suggests, _jump into the river._

"Why?" George challenges. Jumping into the Thames was becoming increasingly appealing.

"Why what?". I stall for time. I'd definitely need the stiff drink Charles was fetching for me by the time this conversation was over. If he ever did fetch it, that is.

"Why do you wear it?" George demands. His tone softens only slightly, but still makes me wince. I glance down at the locket as I roll it about my fingers and search for something witty to say, _anything_ that would make this exchange easier to bear.

"Well" I begin, internally groaning when I find myself returning to the excuse Helena had crafted so many years ago, "It's-". My voice trails off when George shakes his head.

"A fine piece of jewellery?" he finishes for me. I can only blink at him. _Jump in_ , my inner voice screams, _jump in_. The water was murky and disgusting, but I'd survive so long as I didn't open my mouth. And perhaps I'd even be able to find my old mobile pho-

The inner voice that so often plagued me is silenced, as are all thoughts. I wouldn't search for humour where there was none. Either my mind had emptied, or all of that which I'd kept stored up inside it moved too quickly for me to recognise. I'd missed my chance to _leap into the Thames_ , and Charles had not arrived quick enough with that promised stiff drink.

In 1994, George and I had gone our separate ways. Now, in 2014, he had _kissed_ me. I was a teenager again, entirely unsure of how to react. I could only stand rigid, all muscles tensed, arms firm by my sides. At any moment I could have stepped back, or batted away the hand that was so gently placed aside of my head, or slapped the fingers that tenderly toyed with the hair tucked behind my ears. I could easily have seized him and left _him_ to splash about in the Thames.

Yet I do absolutely _nothing_.

I don't really notice when Charles arrives, a knight late to his battle, but when he does, he brings with him my promised drink. His footsteps startle George, who jumps away from me. Before I can make any attempt to speak to him, _or slap him_ , he disappears into the shadows again.

"Enjoying yourself?" Charles smirks from our table. I linger by the wall for a moment longer, eyes once again turning to the brown depths of the river. _What in God's name had just happened? Had I been drinking after all? What exactly was in that medication of mine?_

Stunned, I slump back down into my seat. Charles studies me from his own, bemused but also visibly smug. I wouldn't enjoy his teasing of me, but I was glad at least that he had been the one to see. I could trust Charles, even if he would never let me forget it.

"I won't ask" he says, sipping at his fresh pint. I observe the glass of whisky that had been placed in front of me. And then, without further hesitation, I down it in one.

"That's good" I sigh, "For I haven't a clue of the answer."


	101. Have I Got News For You.

**24th April, 2014.**

**A studio in London.**

A light breeze drifted over the terrace of the House of Commons. Summer approached in steady steps, but along the river ran a soft chill. Out I had gone onto the terrace, as usual flanked by Charles, to enjoy a drink. I'd told him about my day, about my thoughts and struggles, and kindly he had listened. Without initially intending to, I'd ended the night indulging myself with a glass of whisky. Or perhaps two. Or maybe three. I'd thought its potency might help to clear my mind, yet all it did was confuse me further. Had I dreamt it at all? _No_ , reality reminds me harshly, I had not. He had indeed _kissed_ me, and there didn't appear to be anything I could do to forget that.

"Are you alright in there?". The voice of a man to my left tears me back into the present. I'm sat at a red desk, television cameras and lights facing me, with rows upon rows of eager spectators assembled behind them. I shake my head before giving Paul Merton an understanding nod.

"You'll have to forgive me" I speak up, "I was dreaming about 1997". The audience chuckle, but I didn't find it difficult to imagine one of The Telegraph's hacks hastily putting together a piece about how I'd been harking back once again to the New Labour days, some how providing evidence for that coup I'd apparently organised.

"So what was special about that year, then?" Paul asks, playing the fool amid much laughter.

"That was the last time we won the Eurovision Song Contest" I answer quickly, "I'll _never_ forget that". As the audience settle again, and the crew finish their business, I take the time to order the cards put before me. I'd hosted the programme once before, and whilst my media skills may be of a good standard, last week's _incident_ had knocked me off guard slightly.

"Is that going to be one of your pledges when you take over the Labour Party?" Ian Hislop jokes, chubby face scrunching up with laughter, "Under _my_ leadership, Britain will win Eurovision every year". I was grateful that he didn't attempt an accent.

"Oh, no. We'd take the usual Labour approach to anything European" I retort, "And let the Germans win". I was quite proud of that particular line. As conflicted as my thoughts on remaining an independent, or even an MP at all, were, I did so enjoy not having a party line to adhere to. Party politics could be incredibly restrictive.

"You're not bitter at all, are you?" Paul comments sarcastically. I try and contain my own laughter as the crew members before me prepare to begin the recording. All seemed to be ready, but then, as I should have suspected, the woman sat beside Ian pipes up. The journalists often did.

"Did you really plot that coup?" she asks, flicking a blonde curl from the lenses of her glasses, "I only ask because I was at a party recently, and I started talking to William Lewis, who edits The Telegraph, and he said he had solid evidence that you did". There is a moment of quiet as I look at her, and the audience look at me.

"A party with William Lewis?" I snort, making a mental note of my dislike of her, "You poor thing". The journalist giggles in the airy, toffee-nosed way I had been subjected to daily ever since moving to Oxfordshire.

"It was a bit rubbish, actually" the woman admits, "He spilt wine on my dress and I got rather annoyed with him". Perhaps he was beginning to lose the superficial charm he so eagerly exerted? I still felt stupid to have been so easily led by it. I'd always thought myself a decent judge of integrity, even if I wasn't always so possessive of it myself. William Lewis was quite the deceptive creature. The mere memory of him infuriated me now.

"If you're willing to believe what you hear from The Telegraph" I tell her, veiling my irritation at the mention of Lewis as best I can, "You probably deserve to have wine spilt on you."

* * *

An hour had passed, and by now the bulk of the show had been filmed. All that remained were the odd lines that needed to be re-recorded. I'd enjoyed myself, even if this particular part of the process was a bit dull.

The crew babbled amongst themselves, discussing one technicality or another. To pass the time, Ian does as he often did whenever a politician appeared on the programme. _He asked difficult questions_.

"Are you going to the Bildeberg meeting?" he asks me suddenly. I glance up from where I hide my phone on my lap and frown.

"The one next month? I haven't had an invite" I tell him, "Have you?". He smiles to himself and shakes his head.

"Sadly, no" he jokes, "It's in Denmark this year. I'd imagine you'd need the holiday". Surprisingly, I didn't feel so stressed any more. The Campions were gone, and I was finding my way out of my hole. The Telegraph, and the _incident_ , weighed me down somewhat, but it was all entirely manageable.

"If I leave, they might not let me back in" I jest. Denmark. I'd been there only briefly during my time in government, but the memories I had of it were only vague. Stress or not, I would certainly appreciate a trip there. Bildeberg meetings, however, were reserved for bankers and the _political elite_. I was but a backbencher without a party.

"Ed Balls is going" Ian informs me. I imagined Denmark to be quite a serene place. If any one was to ruin the peace there, it would be Balls. 

"Then I'm definitely not going" I snort. I liked Balls much more now than I had previously, predominantly because of the way in which he seemed to stand up to to Ed in private. I often wondered whether he'd consider following my example and return to the backbenches in protest.

"As is George Osborne" Ian adds. I play along and roll my eyes at the mention of the name. I ignore the images of the terrace and the Thames that flash up in my mind and instead try to busy myself by straightening my prompt cards.

"Thank God it's not in Italy or Greece" I find it in me to comment, "Imagine him with a _tan_ ". George had always been pale, but of late he looked almost _dead_. Commentators and cartoonists had a great deal of fun with that, naturally.

"He wouldn't catch a tan" Ian remarks, folding his arms as he often did whenever passing judgement on someone he disapproves of, "He'd just turn to ash and disappear". That prompts scattered applause from the audience, and, admittedly, laughter from me.

A crew member walks out towards the desk and speaks to myself and the guests in a normal tone. "Just one more thing, guys" he says, inspiring me to look at my watch once more, "Have we done Ed Miliband yet?". While he strokes his chin thoughtfully, I try to recall which particular piece about Ed we would have to re-do.

"I haven't _done_ Ed Miliband" I poke, keen to get one last joke in, "But I have been done _over_ by Ed Miliband."

* * *

Dinner with Michael Heseltine required to great amount of preparation, but I still liked to look my best. To commentators, it was a bizarre spectacle. A Tory Peer dining with the person who deposed him, perfectly civil and kind. In all honesty, I did genuinely _like_ Michael. He was occasionally irritating, but pleasant company for the most part.

"You look very smart" the old man compliments, peering over his menu, "Were you expecting someone else?". I gesture to the waiter who lingers in a nearby corner and set my own menu down.

" _Damn_ , you've caught me" I joke, "I was actually waiting for Prince William to arrive". I do my best to fight the thoughts that threaten to distract me. Whenever even the _slightest_ reference was made to any kind of secret liaison of mine, I panicked. The _incident_ had not be a liaison, but rather a small accident that I did not yet understand. Few journalists or colleagues would understand that, however. I found it quite easy to fall into a spiral of worry about the _incident_. _Had any one apart from Charles seen? Were any journalists lurking about? Why had it happened at all?_

"Well, you are adopting something of a more colourful personality" Michael arches an eyebrow, "A fling with a married royal would be different". I order for myself when the waiter approaches, and give Michael the agonisingly slow minutes he needed to make his own mind up.

"I never took you for a gossip" I comment when I'm sure we're alone again. Michael leans back in his seat and rubs his wrinkled forehead. "I'm an old man" he tells me, "I need a bit of gossip. It keeps me entertained". I had only the _incident_ , but I wouldn't gossip about that.

"Well, Tory grandees have amused themselves with worse" I wink, the programme I'd participated in earlier bringing out my sharper side. Michael chokes slightly on his wine.

"Speaking of amusement" he says, changing subject before any inadvertent reference to the incident is made, "Next month should be fun". I take a sip of my own drink, not water on this occasion, and jerk my head, unsure as to whether _fun_ was the right word.

"European elections. Local elections" I exhale, "More bother about Scotland. The usual things". I had already called the local elections for Labour. Even if their national standing was pitiful, many saw local elections as the perfect opportunity to vent their frustrations with the current government. The European elections seemed to be tipping in the favour of UKIP, an interesting development to say the least. I didn't want to think about Scotland at the present moment. I was quite keen on having fun at this particular juncture.

"And then there's that Bilderberg meeting" Michael continues. I'm tempted to roll my eyes.

"That's twice today it's been mentioned to me" I tell him, "I'm starting to wonder whether I'm _supposed_ to go there". Rather like my meeting with Angela Campion, I think to myself. A conference of the world's brightest, yet often dullest, in Denmark appeared to be much more pleasant a prospect.

"I could get you in, if you'd like" Michael nods to me. I can't help but laugh, leaving him looking slightly puzzled.

"Just like that?" I ask. Michael nods again.

"I have my contacts, my dear" he says, tapping the side of his nose with a knowing smile. I didn't doubt that Michael had contacts, as he put it. He had been playing the game longer than I, and so his network was undoubtedly larger than my own. _Perhaps I might be tempted by Denmark after all..._

* * *

"Happy Birthday!". I'm caught by surprise the moment I open my door. I do my best not to fall over when a bouquet of flowers and a neatly wrapped box are shoved into my face. "My birthday was last week" I grumble, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

Jonathan lowers the gifts he presents to me and frowns. "Are you sure?" he asks, disappointed to have missed the date itself. It was 7:40am on a Friday morning. Why Jonathan insisted on calling at such ridiculous times was beyond.

"Very sure" I tell him, stepping aside to allow him into the apartment, "I'm hardly going to forget turning another year older, no matter how much I might want to". _Forty-two_. I'd be going grey soon. Light wrinkles were beginning to appear on my skin, and my eyes no longer seemed to be as bright as they once were. I checked my hair most mornings for any streaks of white. _I would definitely be going grey soon_.

"Still" Jonathan says, extending the gifts he holds towards me once more, " _Happy Birthday_ ". I can't help but smile as I take them. I thank him and set the box down on the coffee table. Jonathan may have had difficulty in understanding his calendar, but he was brilliant at wrapping.

I place the flowers in a vase and flick the switch of the kettle. The sound summons the girl in the room next door. "Could I have my lemon tea please, Mother?" Emily asks. She coughs loudly half-way through her sentence. One quick look at her told me that she'd not yet made any attempt to get ready for school.

"But you only have lemon tea when you're feeling unwell" I say. Again Emily coughs, harder this time. She'd seemed healthy yesterday evening, though somewhat distracted.

"I'm not feeling very well" Emily tells me, looking up to me with wides eyes, "Might I stay at home today?". She was fourteen years old, but still had the height of someone half her age. It came at a considerable advantage. It made her look _cute_.

"Oh dear. So you're really under the weather?" I ask, checking her forehead for a temperature, "And it's nothing to do with that performance you've been dreading all week". Emily furrows her brows at me and stalks away. I chuckle slightly when I hear her bedroom door slam. _Was I a harsh mother?_ I wasn't sure. Emily had seen fit to challenge herself with a particularly tricky piano piece in her Music class. I thought it only right that she go ahead with it.

Emily was far from confident. I suspected she took after her father in that regard. Lionel had always been pleasant company, but behind the polite conversation and kind smiles was a shyness that I had never had to struggle with. _Had I not spent enough time with Emily when she was growing up?_

"Ignore that" I tell Jonathan, emerging into the lounge once more bearing two fresh cups of tea, "Now what is this you've bought me?". I take up the wrapped box and gently remove its ribbon.

Lifting the lid, I find there are a variety of different things tucked away inside, all softly cushioned with shredded paper. One by one, I withdraw the items, thanking Jonathan for each as I go through them. Some were for my own pleasure, others downright useful.

A bottle of Scotch. A waterproof phone case ("in case you feel like throwing your phone into the Thames again" Jonathan said). A biography of John Smith. _Nicotine patches_.

"You spoil me" I smile, giving my old aide an appreciative peck on the cheek. Jonathan gestures towards the biography.

"I thought that might be of interest to you. Of course, you knew him better than any author" he says. I look at the black and white photo of John that has been printed on the cover fondly. I still missed him. I quite often wondered what John would have made of my resignation from the party.

"That always makes for a good biography, I find" Jonathan rattles on, poorly disguising the hint he was about to make, "Actually knowing the person you're writing about". I fix him with narrowed eyes.

"You're not still clinging on to that book idea, are you?" I query. Jonathan could write about literally anything else, yet he seemed dead set on _me_. I'd been written about in national newspapers for decades now, but I didn't feel I was quite ready for a _book_. _How much was I willing to share with the world?_

"There are countless biographies of Thatcher, and Blair and Churchill" Jonathan argues. I inadvertently laugh. I'd read a great deal about Churchill, and been privileged enough to know both Thatcher and Blair. I knew I had no place amongst such great people.

"They're three of the most influential figures in British political history" I point out, "Churchill got the country through a world war. Thatcher defended the Falklands. Tony revolutionised the Labour Party". _What exactly had I done that was so worth writing about?_ If Jonathan was trying to flatter me, he was failing.

"So, you're not a revolutionary, or a great defender of the realm" Jonathan protests, sticking to his idea despite my reservations, "But you've still been a key player of the past twenty years. You defeated Michael Heseltine when you were". I hold my hand up to silence him. As kind as Jonathan was, I wasn't keen on hearing another list of my _achievements_.

"I know what I've done, thank you" I sigh. _I'd done a lot, and not all of it good_. No doubt it was easy for MPs to pat themselves on the back and congratulate themselves on their fantastic careers. _"It's here in print!"_ , they would say, brandishing the biographies named after them with pride, " _What a fantastic being I've been!"_. If a book was to be written about my life, I'd rather it be truthful.

"Then why not share it?" Jonathan asks. I hesitate before I answer. I'd done well over the last few weeks to avoid dwelling on the awful events of the past. The various problems and faces that had plagued me in years gone by no longer threatened to unbalance me. _Yet it was still there_. I could avoid thinking about it all for as much as I'd like. _It still happened_.

"Because if I'm to share it, I'll have to share _all_ of it" I tell him, staring off at nothing in particular, "And I don't think I'm quite ready for that". Jonathan leans forward in his seat and offers me a kind smile.

"I won't drop this idea, you know. And I know you won't want to write your own memoirs" he says, "I worked with you for God knows how many years. I know you're the only person who is likely to tell me the absolute truth of your history". Friends and family would put their own spin on events, and enemies and rivals of mine would make me out to be even worse than I really was. I'd kept so much to myself these past twenty years. _So much that only I knew_.

"Like I say" I repeat, "I'm not ready for it all to be, shall we say, revealed". Any other prospective author might appear curious, or apprehensive, at the slightly ominous way in which I'd hinted at my secrets. Jonathan simply blinks at me. _Would he judge me if I did tell him?_ I was inclined to think better of him.

"Then tell me when you are ready" Jonathan replies, nestling back in his seat again, "In the meantime, I'll start to mull on titles". I can't help but roll my eyes. I had a feeling Jonathan would be waiting for quite some time.

"Elizabeth Nelson, the Red Lady" Jonathan ponders aloud. I throw a cushion at him, making my thoughts on that particular title known. "I'm not a whore" I cuss. The press had always used to call me a _lady in red_. I suspected its origins involved a red dress I had once worn. _Or perhaps it was my hair? Or my lipstick? Perhaps at one point I had been rather sexy?_ I chuckle to myself at that suggestion. _Sexy_.

A knock on the door of the apartment catches my attention as Jonathan continues to mutter away to himself. It seemed he wasn't the only one who enjoyed calling by so early.

"The Iron Lady of the Left!" I hear Jonathan exclaim in the background, catching the young man standing on my doorstep by surprise, "I've got it!". I apologise to the young man and wait for him to introduce himself.

"Lord Heseltine sent me" he speaks, barely audible over Jonathan's increasingly excitable babbling, "He wanted me to deliver this". The young man reaches into his pocket and withdraws a white card.

"Good day to you". Before I can ask further questions, the young man has gently planted the card in my palm and disappeared into a nearby elevator. I could understand Michael sending a younger man in his place, but for what purpose?

By the time I've resumed by position on the couch, with Jonathan murmuring away over his cup of yea, it's dawned on me. " _I could get you in, if you'd like_ ", Michael had said. I trace the letter blue letter _B_ printed onto the card with my index finger. For a former rival, I was doing extremely well out of Michael.

Not only had I been treated to dinner by him, it also appeared I was on my way to _Denmark_. 


	102. Copenhagen.

**28th May, 2014.**

**Copenhagen, Denmark.**

_Bilderberg is illuminati_. Those were the words Alex had jokingly left me with. A large, entirely private weekend spent with the world's political and financial elite. It was easy to see why so many were sceptical about what was discussed at these gatherings.

The press could only hang about outside the hotel, and at a distance. Bankers, proprietors, government ministers, economists. It was an eclectic mix of intelligent, fascinating folk from right around the globe. The fellow I walked alongside as I approached the entrance of the hotel, however, wasn't quite so fascinating.

"It's changed, you know" Evelyn Rothschild tells me, gesturing towards the facade of the building with a wrinkled hand, "I'm surprised I haven't tried to buy this". I do my best to appear interested for the many cameras waiting near.

"You have to leave something for the rest of us" I jest. I was a pauper compared to many of my fellow guests. Rothschild was a _billionaire_. Public distrust in these annual meetings was well founded. Not that I'd let that dampen my weekend, of course.

I allow the elderly Rothschild to step through into the safety of the hotel first, thinking it was perhaps safer for him to be away from the furore of the press. Amongst the many politically-charged questions that are thrown at me comes a somewhat feeble plea from an American woman, sticking out her microphone as far as she could.

"What are you wearing today, Ms Nelson?" she asks. The discussions that were to take place over the weekend would remain secret, so the press had to talk about something, even if that _something_ was the brand or label that female attendees favoured most.

" _Clothes_ " I reply, refusing to indulge them in that _something_. I step into the hotel to be faced with a lobby as grand as could be imagined. It was modern in design, but fitting for our summit.

A few minutes later, after detaching myself from the hoardes of foreigners who wanted to greet me in the lobby, I am shown to my room, a spacious and airy spot that looked onto the waterfront. My bags already await me, as does a bottle of fine vintage, a warm note of welcome set alongside it.

 _Important gatherings, impressive locations, incredibly lavish hotel rooms_. None of these things were new to me. My time in government had made sure of that. After what felt like an age in Opposition, it felt very good indeed to be back. _The backbenches really weren't that bad at all, were they?_

There is a heavy knock on my door. It was more of a thud than a knock, the more I listen. I knew instantly who it was I'd find waiting for me when I opened my hotel room door.

"Balls!" I say, "What a _pleasant_ surprise". I invite the man in and watch as he studies my room with squinted eyes. He'd already switched his suit for a plain jumper and jeans, less than fitting for a weekend with billionaires and financiers, but no less authentic.

"Your room is much nicer than mine" he comments, inspecting the spring of my mattress with a pointed finger. I pour him a drink from the decanter supplied and invite him to join me at the window. Two chairs had been positioned there, with a fine view across the city.

"You look as though you're preparing for a weekend at Butlins" I remark, studying his attire once more. Balls did at least look _comfortable_. I'd pay a heavy price for the heels I wore by the end of the day.

"I'm not going to dress up for the sake of those toffee-nosed bastards downstairs" he replies. _Ever the diplomat_. Ed Balls was beginning to grow on me as a man, but I still had little faith in his abilities as a prospective Chancellor of the Exchequer.

"Not one for networking, then?" I tease. I could imagine others being a little wary of Balls, but I hoped that more would at least _try_ and appreciate him. Even if he possessed the tact of a seven-legged elephant, he was a decent chap.

"I leave that to your lot" Balls says, finally tearing his eyes away from the room's decor to pay attention to the magnificent view before him.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I withdraw it and read the message sent to me with interest. "A dinner invitation?" Balls asks, adopting a mockingly snooty accent. I shake my head as I type my reply.

" _Hillary Clinton_ " I correct, "The Americans are meeting for drinks in the bar later on. It might be fun". The Americans weren't always my greatest friends. Those who I had worked with over the years had always been kind, but prone to boisterousness. Donald Rumsfeld had been _particularly_ bad in that respect.

Still, I could enjoy a drink with them. The look of quiet boredom on Balls' face gives me an idea. "Why don't you come along?" I propose, "Start _networking_ ". Balls focuses on the drink he holds at the moment and downs it in one.

"I think I'll pass" he says. I arch an eyebrow. There were only a handful of Brits present at the meeting, and I knew of only a couple foreign ministers in attendance whom Balls would get on with. Dislike him or not, I wouldn't leave him to spend his evenings in idleness.

"Go on" I urge, "There might be _nibbles_ ". Something flashes in Balls' eyes.

"Yes, alright then."

* * *

Ed Balls did not get his nibbles. He was resigned to hunger for the evening, making the odd grumpy intervention to conversation, fuelling himself with the best beer available. Occasionally, I'd nudge him. Regardless of my reservations, a prospective Chancellor he remained. And prospective Chancellors did not slump in the presence of powerful Americans.

"What's this we hear about the _Eurozone_?" Jack Lews poses, speaking the name as thought I were some bizarre, distant invention. To America, the Eurozone no doubt was distant. Henry Paulson, the sole Republican at the table, appeared to be slightly more aware.

"The Eurozone was a _crappy_ idea" he says plainly. Americans, I had noticed, weren't quite as civil in their comments as their British counterparts usually were. Much of British politics was tightly restrained by the rules of etiquette enforced in the House of Commons. As brazen as the Americans could be, they were at least _clear_.

"Of course it was" I say, "Numerous different economies, relying on numerous different factors, shouldn't operate under the same currency". I'd kicked up quite the stink about the single currency when it had first been mentioned at Cabinet. What had unsettled me at the time was the fact there were a number around that able who _liked_ the idea.

"Still holding on to that Euroscepticism, Liz?" Hillary Clinton smiles. I'd been quite star struck when I'd first met Clinton, then the First Lady, as a young MP. I'd worked with her closely since that time. I found time for both Democrats and Republicand, but I was inclined to favour the former more than the latter.

"A leopard doesn't change its spots" I wink. Balls looks up.

"Perhaps that leopard ought to consider joining the Conservative Party" he pokes. I don't bite at him, the amusement in his eyes giving his game away, but instead smile.

"I might be surrounded by the world's richest and brightest" I retort, " _But I'm not a total wanker yet."_

"Eloquently put _"._ My startled reaction to the voice gives away more than I'd like. For a month I had managed to successfully avoid him. Now I was facing the prospect of sharing a tightly secured hotel with him for the next three days or so.

The terrace, the cool breeze of the Thames, the indescribable feeling of not having a _fucking_ clue what was going on. It all comes flooding back to me as a jump to my feet. Instinctively, the Americans follow suit.

"Mr Chancellor!" Lews greets, warmly shaking George by the hand, "Please, please sit down with us". He scurries away and returns seconds later with a chair. George sits patiently as the Americans greet him one by one.

"Ed" he nods to Balls, who nods back. The two watch each other quietly for a moment or two, before forcibly moving their eyes away. I was keen on conversation remaining civil for the duration of the weekend. I felt awkward enough, without the threat of a Tory-Labour spat about the economy breaking out.

"Are you not familiar with Elizabeth?" Clinton asks George. I could tell by her tone that she disapproved of his silence towards me. I, on the other hand, was content to be ignored. I wanted to be reminded no more of the incident on the terrace.

"I am" George says, dark eyes finally managing to meet my own, "How have you been, Liz?". The table falls quiet as we make our introductions. The stiffness with which we addressed one another silenced every one else.

"Well" I reply, smiling weakly, "Yourself?". He was as solemn in my company as he had been when I'd first returned to Parliament earlier in the year. _Did he regret it? Could I really blame him?_

"I'm well" he tells me. I find it difficult to assess his thought. His eyes were a mix of countless feelings and fears, none of which I was able to name. _Of course he regretted it. He regretted it and now he struggles to look at you_.

"Any one care for another round?" Balls pipes up, wanting an end to whatever awkward moment presided. The Americans nod enthusiastically and raise their empty glasses.

"I'll go" George and I say in unison. In fairness, the air about the table would be made much clearer if we both left it. And so off to the bar we troop, notably rigid as we walk alongside one another. I overhear Hillary asking Balls ' _what the hell is going on there?_ ' when she thinks I'm out of earshot. _If only I knew_.

"Scotch, please" I request, abandoning my prior commitment to water on this particular evening, "Make it a double". George seems to have a similar idea.

"Cabernet Franc" he asks the bartender, sighing heavily as he does so, "Make it the whole bottle". We sample our respective drinks and steady our nerves. I could only hope that alcohol would remove the awkwardness felt on both sides. _We're adults_ , I try to remind myself, _this is below you_.

"I saw you on Have I Got News For You" George opens, turning towards me, wine glass in hand, as the bartender prepares the drinks of our American friends. "Most enjoyable" he adds.

"I'm glad you think so" I reply, "I didn't take you for a fan". George takes a long sip of his wine. He'd be asking for another bottle before too long. _At least he was talking to me_.

"Well, I'm not so much a fan of the _programme_ " he says, dark eyes pinning me to the spot. For a change, I struggle to respond. I take another gulp of whisky and clear my throat. _You're an adult_.

" _So_ " I mumble, "How are things at the Treasury?". The mention of work makes George bow his head for another sip of wine.

" _Wonderful_ " he says, "The deficit is coming down, as is unemployment. We're headed in the right direction". The success of George's policies were debatable, but I didn't think it the right moment to challenge them now.

"Yet you're still unhappy?" I find myself asking. _You idiot_. George had every right to be unhappy. He was tasked with enormous responsibilities, now without the support of a wife.

"I suppose I am" George tells be truthfully. I struggle to find any deep sadness in his eyes, only the look of a man searching for something.

"Will you kids hurry up with our drinks?" the evening's token Republican barks, "I need something to throw over Lews when things start to get heated". Heated. That was exactly how I felt as I stood at the bar. I spot an opportunity for escape when I notice a door leading to the small garden outside is propped open.

George seizes two of the ordered drinks and heads towards the table with them. "Will you give me a hand?" he asks. I knew my mother would cuss me for my rudeness, _but I had to get out_. I grab my whisky and make a break for it.

"Forgive me" I say, ignoring the concern now growing in George's eyes, "I need a breath of fresh air". And so out into the small, green corner of the hotel I go, cold and submerged in shadow, but _alone_.

* * *

A warm, lavish room awaited me several floors above. Yet here I sat, arms and legs exposed in a sleeveless dress, on a frightfully cold wall, staring aimlessly at the rippling of the water below.

I'm composed myself by now, and my whisky was gone, but I didn't feel I was quite ready to return inside just yet. I hadn't intended to spend my evening sat outside doing very little. Deep discussions of economic policy would have to start tomorrow.

"Liz?" I hear Balls call. A few moments later, he pokes his head around a particularly tall flower. "The Americans are missing you". I snort despite myself.

"Alas, they shall have to carry on missing me" I reply, "I just need a moment". Balls steps closer and leans against the wall that I perch on.

"You've been out here for fifteen minutes!" he challenges. I jump down from the wall in an attempt to avoid the gradual freezing of my behind. "The view is decent. The people are friendly" I say, "It's like London, but without the knife crime and the bad smell."

"Good night, Liz" Balls bids me, turning on his heel and chuckling his way back to the bar. He does not leave me alone, however, for the man I'd sought to escape appears beside me, though every bit as captivated by the view as I was.

"It's quite easy to forget how _beautiful_ the world is" George sighs, "A beautiful world full of ugly people". It was obvious that he'd been drinking. I couldn't think of a more unnatural thing for George to say. The view was undoubtedly beautiful, though.

"You're a cheerful specimen, aren't you?" I poke. For the first time that evening, George smiles.

"I'm sorry" he says, relaxing slightly, "I've a lot of think about lately". _Likewise_. Then again, in my case I was intent on avoiding _thinking about it_ as much as possible.

"So I should hope" I reply sarcastically, "I'd imagine the public will be thrilled to hear that you're finally _thinking_ about your actions". As on the terrace, I sought my escape in making jokes. Still George did not laugh at any of them. They might not make him feel better, but they certainly eased my pain.

 _Say goodnight and walk away_ , my inner voice implores, _go while you have the chance_. Yet I still choose to remain where I am, gazing off at nothing in particular across the water. I'd come to regret that decision a few seconds later.

"I mean" George speaks, clearing his throat loudly, "I've been thinking, well, about the _terrace_ ". I was neither eating nor drinking, but I manage to choke. _Shit. I really should have escaped, shouldn't I?_ I can't help but flounder in my response.

"It's a nice spot, isn't it? Quiet. Nice view. Quite like this place" I grapple. Composure was well and truly out of the window by now. I mumble on about the merits of parliament's terrace for a moment longer, valiant in my efforts to avoid talk of the _incident_ , but eventually concede defeat. "Oh, _shit_ " I exhale, verbally exhausted by so much mindless chatting, "I know you're sorry it happened. I'm sorry too. _I_ was tired, _you_ were tired. Let's just try and forget about the whole thing, shall we?".

I'd managed to replace five minutes of rambling with a good thirty seconds of rambling. George doesn't reply initially, but stares at me, slightly bemused. I glance down at the empty glass that rests on the wall. _How potent it was_.

"That's the thing" George says once he's recovered from my blathering, "I'm not sure I am sorry". _I definitely should have escaped earlier_. I'd come to Denmark for the weekend for engaging, intellectual debate about economics and foreign policy. I hadn't come to be _cornered_ like this.

"Don't be silly, George, of course you are" I correct, the space around me growing smaller and smaller with each passing moment.

"But I'm not" George protests, more forceful this time, "It was rather an odd thing to do, I grant you, but I won't apologise for it". _Perhaps you ought to_. I hadn't asked for the _incident_ to happen. As far as I was concerned, it was all of George's making.

"Don't start on some convoluted bullshit about how you're secretly in love with me" I sigh, irritation building, "Let's go and get another drink, and forget about all of this". I gesture towards the open door into the bar behind us and start to head towards it.  _Finally making my escape._

But then a cold hand takes hold of my wrist, pulling me back. Before I can protest, an equally cold hand is placed on my cheek. _Not again_. I'd _slap_ him. I'd _push him away_. At some point, at least. Another quiet spot, _another waterfront I wanted to throw him into_.

I don't feel the same kind of shock this time. Something still rendered me unable to get away. I wasn't scared, nor even offended. So what was it? Something else changes this time, mild confusion replaced by a deep stirring feeling within me.

"Liz?". An American woman's voice startles me, forcing me to jump backwards and detach the hand I hadn't realised I was holding.

"Hillary!" I smile. I brush the strands of stray red hair from my eyes and regain control of my breathing. _She can tell you were up to something_. I'd hoped my poker face was better than that, but I could already tell she suspected me of something.

"Is everything okay?" the American asks, glancing about this secluded spot by the waterfront with curious eyes. I nod, perhaps too vigorously.

"Absolutely" I say, "I was just-". I turn to nod to George, and hastily invent a story about how we were arguing about policy, but instead find he is _gone_. I wasn't sure if I felt relieved or, dare I say it, _disappointed_.

"Come on, honey" Hillary invites, putting a warm arm around me and leading me towards the bar, "I think you need to get to bed". I let her take me. Twenty-something me would have fainted at the thought of Hillary Clinton putting her arm around me, but in this particular moment I had other things to think on.

I doubted I would sleep now, which was a shame given how delightfully comfortable my bed appeared to be. I had too much on my mind. So consumed was I by my own thoughts that I allow myself to be led along, through the bar and towards the lobby, flanked by my American friends.

And when a man with dark eyes approaches to offer to escort me to my room, I don't refuse.

"Good night, Liz" Ed Balls says, narrowing his eyes at George. No doubt he wondered why he had accompanied us to this part of the hotel. I wasn't entirely sure myself. My mind had been encompassed in a great fog, and I didn't seem to be able to shake it.

"Good night, Ed" I smile, wearily. George says nothing. He leads me, most politely, to my hotel room door and nods down the corridor behind. "I'm off that way" he tells me. He lingers. My hands itch at my sides. _Why were they so restless?_

"Good night" he says, almost forcing himself away from the door. For some reason I don't bid him the same.

"Would you care for a drink?" I hear myself saying. _A night cap. Really?_

George nods.

My own confusion reaches astronomical heights.

* * *

I was at least in my own bed when I awoke. It was every bit as comfortable as it looked, and surprisingly I had managed to get a decent amount of sleep. I lie still for several minutes and wait for my brain to kick in.

When I can find the energy and the will, I drag myself from the bed and have a quick shower. I wanted to be fresh for the new day. I had a feeling it would be a long one, and the previous night had left me rather sore and tired. Once I'm clean, I wrap myself in the robe provided and step back into the bedroom. It wasn't quite as pleasant when it was a _mess_.

I pick up the clothes I'd left strewn on the floor and pick out a fresh set, aiming for something slightly more comfortable. Balls had, it seemed, the right idea. _My heels ached as much as the rest of me did_.

The curtains are opened, and I'm met with the sight of a new day in Copenhagen. I'd very little idea of what I'd get up to, though I hoped it would be a more productive one than yesterday.

The relative emptiness of the corridor told me that I'd woken later than most of my fellow guests. The odd person wandered on down to the meeting room downstairs, as well as the occasional cleaner, but my surroundings were otherwise deserted.

"Hello, Miss" a voice greets as I step out into the hallway. I turn to face a man many decades my senior, dressed smartly in a blazer and bow tie. I couldn't say I was familiar with him, though his English accent narrowed the possibilities down slightly.

"Good morning" I smile, not as afraid of _networking_ as Balls had been, "I'm Elizabeth Nelson". The man shakes my hand and offers me a kind smile.

"Oh, I know who you are, my dear" he says, "Though I doubt you're familiar with me". I step forward to make my steady descent down the stairs to join my fellow guests, but the man reaches out to stop me.

"I think it's probably best if you shut your door, my dear" he advises, a flicker of amusement in his aged eyes. I almost slap myself when I notice that I've left the door of my room wide open. My embarrassment is made all the worse when I realise I'd also left my mobile phone inside.

The old man patiently waits for me to set myself out. I still wasn't sure of his identity, but it appeared he was keen on sticking with me. _Was he a Peer?_ No, I'd have recognised him if he was. _A banker? An academic?_

"That's a fine tie you have there" he compliments, nodding to the length of blue hanging over one of the chairs placed near the window, "I always think women look rather nice in ties". I wasn't entirely sure why he'd felt the need to look in, but I was glad at least that he hadn't seen the room in its worse state.

Absentmindedly, quite distracted by my search for my phone, I pick the tie up and tuck it into the nearest chest of drawers. "Oh, that isn't mine" I tell the man. I freeze the moment the words leave my lips. _It wasn't mine_. Was my brain still asleep? I couldn't use the early hour as an excuse. _Just how potent was that scotch?_

 _Great_ , I think to myself, internal implosion looming, _now you can spend the rest of the day feeling guilty_.

"Late night?" the man asks. Mobile phone finally in hand, I lock my door and begin my journey along the corridor. "Something like that" I mutter. Twenty years ago, with a packed party conference in full swing, I had awoken, in a hotel room and hastily dressed myself to make it to a gathering where many were expecting me. I'd felt guilty then, and I felt very guilty now. _I at least hadn't had the difficulty of trying to avoiding the room's other inhabitant on this occasion_.

"I'm ever so sorry" I say, pushing it all to the back of my mind, "I didn't ask your name". The man smiles.

"Frederick Barclay" he tells me politely, reaching out to shake my hand again, "Though most call me Fred". _Shit. He was one of the Barclay brothers_. I now also had the added guilty of not recognising him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Fred" I smile, hoping to redeem myself, "Is this your first time at Bilderberg?". I doubted it. Bilderberg meetings were designed for men like Frederick Barclay. The Barclays were amongst Britian's richest financiers. Fred would be in good company here.

"I attended once before, quite a few years ago" the man tells me reminscently, "It wasn't quite as _cold_ as it is here". Steadily, we make our way downstairs and listen out for voices in the meeting rooms below.

"Are you keen on current affairs yourself?" I ask, curious about the topics the group would later get their teeth stuck into. I didn't really know what to expect. No one ever shared the details of Bilberberg meetings in public. _I certainly wouldn't be sharing my own experience_.

"I dabble" Barclay replies, balancing himself on my forearm as he tackles a particularly steep step, "I'm a newspaper proprietor, these days, so often make an effort to stay in touch with it all."

"Might I ask which newspaper?" I query. I was genuinely interested in the fellow. For one so rich, he was incredibly humble. The other banking types present at the meeting weren't totally snobbish, but many could pay to be a little more gracious in attitude.

"The Telegraph" Barclay says. _The Telegraph, my old friends_. They'd left me alone this past month. That of course meant they were preparing something particularly damaging.

"I'm afraid I'm no avid reader of that particular newspaper" I confess, only bothering to veil my bitterness slightly. It isn't hard for Barclay to pick up on it.

"Oh?" he responds, "I'm sorry to hear that". It's then that I get an idea. He _was_ the proprietor. It wouldn't be so bad of me to make my complaints about William Lewis, would it?

"Might I recommend you find yourself a new editor?" I suggest, comforted by the thought of Lewis' future embarrassment. Barclay arches a coarse eyebrow.

"I'd certainly be very interested in the reasons why" he smiles slyly. _Perhaps he didn't like William Lewis either?_

"For now, alas, we must be interested in whatever it is this lot are discussing" I sigh, nodding towards the open door of a room that was packed full of our fellow attendees. A large, round table had been set out. Most chairs were already occupied, but I was pleased to see that my American friends had saved one for me.

"I'll look forward to speaking with you again later, my dear" Barclay says, giving me a grateful pat on the arm before hobbling away towards his own seat.

"I didn't think you'd make it out of bed" Lews chuckles to himself, pulling my chair out for me. Hillary and her followers greet me with warm smiles. Balls simply stares at me with accusing eyes.

"Henry thought we should go and wake you" Lews adds, giving his Republican colleague a disparaging look. Paulson opens his mouth to reply, irritation evident on his face, but is cut off by Balls.

"I think we were discussing world affairs" he interjects, never a great fan of petty politics. Both Democrat and Republican matter their criticisms under their breath. When Balls is content that the two had settled down, he turns his eyes to me again. I got the feeling he suspected me of something, but I daren't think what.

"Osborne doesn't hate my ideas that much, then" he jokes to me quietly, gesturing silently to the opposite side of the table where George sits, "He's dressed down for a change". George wasn't quite as casual as Balls had been yesterday. He sits quietly, light patches encircling his eyes, his top button undone, the sleeves of his blazer rolled up slightly.

He had indeed dressed down, but he looked in no way liberated. _Perhaps he felt lost without his tie?_


	103. Decisions to Be Made.

**10th June, 2014.**

**House of Commons, London.**

"How come you never seem to talk about Denmark?". Charles can't contain his curiosity for long. Ever since I'd returned from that Bilderberg meeting, he had been full of questions. 'What was the weather like?'. 'What did you talk about?'. ' _Why do you keep looking at my tie?'._

I shake myself back into reality and clear my throat loudly. "There must be a stain on it" I shrug. In reality, I looked at the tie because it was _there_. All day, every day, I was surrounded by men wearing ties. Often ugly, often horribly patterned. The one I'd left in Copenhagen was entirely _boring_. So boring that I doubted it would be missed.

"You've been acting rather oddly, lately" Charles assesses, measuring me from across the table, "I saw you _run_ out of the chamber of the other day". A less than riveting session of Prime Minister's Questions had concluded, and down the steps to the floor of the House I had walked. I'd planned on taking my usual path, into the lobby and up to my office, but was put off. _He had decided to walk in the same direction_. And so out of the chamber, in the opposite direction, I had hurried.

"It reminded me of the time you ran across the green outside, in your heels, to get to Michael Heseltine" Charles laughs away to himself. He takes a long sip of his beer and shakes his head. As distracted as I was, I was still able to take note of just how quickly Charles was drinking. I note it, _yes_. But I say _nothing_.

"In a reminiscent mood, are we?" I ask, "Not thinking of leaving, are you?". Charles had sat in Parliament much longer than I had. His time here had been every bit as turbulent as my own. With the likes of Gordon and Jack planning their retirement, it would be understandable if Charles chose to do the same.

"Oh, no" Charles reassures me, raising his pint aloft, "Though I might not have a choice, come the next general election". The oncoming general election, of course, was something else I was keen on forgetting about.

"Don't say that" I tell him. Charles choosing retirement _was_ understandable, but not preferable. For all it's stresses, Parliament _suited_ Charles. He'd been very young when he'd first set foot inside the Commons, just like me, but he'd adapted where I had struggled.

"It's not so unlikely" Charles speaks quietly, "Not with this SNP lot on the rise". He glances fleetingly at one of our nationalist colleagues at a neighbouring table. There was no trace of bitterness in his eye, only recognition.

"I've managed to hold onto Henley these past twenty years" I remind him, detesting the idea of Charles losing his seat. At that, my old friend merely raises an eyebrow.

"Speaking of which" he says, "Have you made your mind up?". The question of retirement was turned onto me, and not for the first time. _I was still unsure of the answer_. Bizarrely, my weekend in Copenhagen had tempted me towards retirement.

So many of my contemporaries there had made it to the table _outside_ of elected office. The vast majority of politicians present at Bilderberg that weekend occupied High Office. I was but a backbencher. The wealth of Fred Barclay and the status of his many financier friends did not appeal to me, but their thoughts and opinions were at least respected, and all without the stress of a _parliament_.

 _But who would replace me?_ I had no influence over my local Labour Party, and even less over the local assemblies of their nearest rivals. For all my problems, and indeed there were many, the one thing I liked to think I had _not_ fucked up on was my constituency. Henley would always be my home, but was it time for another to represent it? Who could I trust to take care of it?

"I won't pressure you" Charles grins, "Though I would point out that the election is now less than twelve months away". I was insistent on avoiding talk of 2015. I wasn't sure how I'd cope with it, even now. Predictions and worry, in amongst the countless numbers of opinion polls and reports, bounced about the alresdy crowded confines of my mind. I had my suspicions, just as I had done in 2010, but I still did not feel prepared.

"It might be quite liberating, to walk out of here and not have to look back" Charles exhales, studying what remained of his pint with narrowed eyes, "You could always get your cousin to give you a peerage if you get _bored_ ". Michael Heseltine had promised to save me a seat in the Lords a number of years ago. Could _I hold him to it after all?_

"It might also make you available for _other things_ " Charles hints coyly, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a packet of cigarettes. He offers me one, but I politely decline. My reservations about alcohol had subsided slightly, but I had at least managed to stay clear of smoking.

"What do you mean?" I ask. I was already fairly certain of what he was so badly toying with, but decide to indulge him all the same. My ignorance was not convincing, but it made me feel less of an idiot. Charles lights his cigarette and rather rudely puffs a large cloud of ash in my direction.

"How many times _did_ you sleep with him at Copenhagen?". I choke on either the smoke or the question.

"I beg your pardon?" I splutter. I pinch myself under the table when my eyes drift once again to Charles' tie. It was light yellow in colour, vibrant but not absurdly so, much better than the drab blue specimen I had so hastily hidden away in Denmark.

"Well, that's what you're hiding, isn't it? I've known you far too long for this, Liz, _come on_ " Charles chuckles, not the faintest hint of judgement apparent in his expression, "And don't say you were _drunk_ , either. You might have been the first time, I suppose, but the _second?_ ". I observe him silently from across the table. Charles had been unfortunate enough to accidentally witness the _incident_ that had previously taken place on the terrace. I should have known better than to try and deceive him.

"And now I'm avoiding him like a _child_ " I sigh, rubbing my temple in an effort to prevent another headache. _Running out of the chamber?_ I knew I was being silly, but I couldn't face, well, _facing him_.

"You're just unsure of how to react" Charles says, like a therapist to his patient, "You'll probably sort yourself out once you realise you're in lo-". I turn my eyes to my watch and get to my feet.

"Ah, what a _pity_ " I cut in, "I'm late for something". I give Charles a pat on the shoulder and leave him to puff away on his cigarette in peace.

"Coward!" he calls back to me. I make sure he can see me give him the middle finger before I disappear into the building. _I wasn't late for anything, as I didn't have anything to do_. I'd finished all of my constituency casework, and the day's schedule provided nothing of great interest.

So, like a good coward, I retreat to my safe space. I could be alone in my office, and no awkward questions would be asked. _God almighty_ , my inner voice mutters disapprovingly, _you really are a coward_.

* * *

My cousin seemed to be _crying_. Beads of sweat lined his top lip, and in the corners of his eyes lingered droplets of another kind. He'd done and said much since becoming Prime Minister, but only now had I seen him become truly _emotional_. I didn't envy him. He was an English Conservative charged with the protection of the union. The odds were not good.

"Head, heart and _soul_ , we want you to stay" I hear him say, staring directly into the camera with tired eyes. The referendum loomed ever closer, but still I felt little optimism. Despite my doubt, I still manage to _admire_ David, if only slightly. I didn't at all doubt that his soul was well and truly in it.

 _And here you are_ , my inner voice cusses, _hiding_. I'd told my staff to go home early, leaving me alone in my office with only the sound of the television to keep me company. I was alone, that is, until my sister called. I knew of many women who longed for a sister to grow up with. There were moments when I'd happily hand my own to any of them.

"I have _news_ " she says. I already regret answering the phone. "Have you saved the union?" I joke, eyes on the television on which our cousin struggles on.

"No" Helena says, "I've _spotted_ something". With no sense of interest, I wait for her to elaborate.

"I think Nevin's new wife might be pregnant" she whispers, as though fearing Claire might hear her, "Then again, she is rather  _chunky_  anyway". I'd slap her if she were near.

"She's also your sister-in-law" I remind her curtly, "And therefore family". Claire was an incredibly sweet girl, who seemed to make our brother genuinely happy. She was quite an improvement on Eva Smith.

"I know, I know" Helena replies hurriedly, "In a way I'm rather jealous. Every one but me has had children of their own". Helena had always struggled to settle. Whatever madness she was embarking on with Douglas Alexander, it was bound to be short-lived.

"You're a very successful journalist" I remind her, "You don't need children to be worth something". Of five children, my mother had five grandchildren, with a suspected sixth on the way. I knew she'd love a seventh from Helena.

"I'm thirty-eight years old" my sister grumbles, more to herself than me, "I should be a mother to at least _two_ by now". I'm unsure of what to say. I didn't believe Helena needed children, but her desire was obvious. What _I_ could do, I did not know.

"I know women in their mid-forties who are only just starting families" I try, keen to reassure her whatever my own feelings. I run through my contacts and mentally assess which would be most suitable for Helena. I wasn't one for playing cupid, but I could at least _try_ and do something nice for her. _Just this once_.

"Will you ever have any more children, Liz?" Helena poses, quiet suddenly. I make the pause that follows too long. I'd never really thought about more children. I was happy with the two I already had.

"I highly doubt it" I answer, "All of that seems rather small once you pass the age of forty". At my father's funeral four years ago, my mother had urged me to _'find someone again'._ I wasn't that someone existed. I had inklings, of course, but practicality prevented it.

"And when you leave Parliament?" Helena probes. As was common, she cut through events with a sharpened knife.

"I don't recall deciding that I would leave-". I attempt to defend myself, but I'm cut off.

"Don't be silly" says Helena, "I don't think you want to stay, at all. I just _know_ it". I laugh for no reason in particular.

"I'm glad you do."

* * *

It was rare that any one asked me about my cousin. I was grateful, really. David dominated enough headlines as it was. Besides, I had my _own_ career, one that would not involve losing Scotland.

"You've been tough on Miliband" my interviewer claims, pen scratching away at a small notepad, a rare sight in the current decade, "How would you rate Cameron?". I stroke my chin mockingly.

"I certainly don't rate his dance moves" I ponder mischievously, "But he's not a _terrible_ prime minister". I felt I had to be fair for my mother's sake.

"And would you care to share with our readers the story of how you once slapped him across a dinner table?" the man asks. I tut loudly. Perhaps that tale would be one I'd willing to share with Jonathan. "We could get one of your hacks to conduct this interview, you know" I say.

Lionel straightens himself up in the seat opposite and quickly jots something down in the corner of his paper. It was far from ordinary for an editor to lead interviews with people, but Lionel had volunteered. His friendliness was enough to distract me, if only slightly, from the conflict of my thoughts. Ally or not, I wasn't sure Lionel needed to know about Copenhagen.

"To be honest" he says, setting his notepad aside for a moment and reaching down into his bag, "I needed an excuse to see you". Already I begin to worry. For quite some time now, Lionel had been my ally in the fight against William Lewis. I would no doubt be considered highly unethical of me to use the Financial Times, which happened to be edited by my ex-husband, to take damaging stories about me from The Telegraph. Ah, the press.

A broad sheet of paper is slapped down on the desk in front of me. It was unfolded but somewhat rough in its presentation, a draft of a two-page spread that might be found in the middle of a newspaper. _THE REAL ELIZABETH NELSON_. The words were printed as bold as could be along the pages, bringing with them a great of dread.

"That _Liam_ fellow from The Telegraph passed it onto me" Lionel explains as I read each piece carefully. _It was all here_. Every scrap of dirt William Lewis had accumulated about me over the years, even some revelations I had not been expecting, such as my tax arrangements. It was the _seedier_ details that took precedence. A political assassination would not be complete without a good old sex scandal. As expected, there printed was that photo of Alex in his youth, alongside an admittedly amusing photo of a young George and I pulling funny faces. I could vaguely remember Emily telling me that Eva had shown her it once.

"It says here that he wrote it all" I reply, pointing to the familiar name written at the top of the main article. Liam had proven incredibly helpful, but I didn't feel I could trust him entirely just yet.

"A lucky promotion" Lionel says, "He's political editor now". _A political editor who indulges in gossip_. Lionel seems to sense my apprehension.

"The closer he gets to Lewis, the closer we get to stripping him of all he has on you" he reassures me. I had been presented by, what was effectively, a draft. The damning revelations that Lewis had collected were consolidated across two pages, and just like that my cover would be blown. When the public would see these two pages, I did not know.

"When will this be published?" I ask, already preparing myself for whatever storm awaited me. Lionel slides the paper back towards him across the desk and tucks it away into his bag.

"For maximum effect?" he thinks, "Shortly before the referendum". Great. I couldn't see my sins turning any one away from the No campaign, but they wouldn't be particularly helpful.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" I say, reaching for my coat. I slip it on quickly and make for the door, suddenly very desperate for some fresh air.

"Leave the cigarettes" Lionel sighs, barely bothering to look as he continued with his note-taking. I stop to remove the box from my pocket, not before shooting him a stern glance. _Nicorette_ , I force myself to remember, _Nicorette is your friend_.

"And don't take a detour to the bar" Lionel adds. I roll my eyes and slip out of the office. I wouldn't head for the bar. I certainly wouldn't go to the terrace outside. _I simply needed air_.

I politely nod to the colleagues I pass, all the while wondering how many of them would greet me so warmly once Lewis' campaign reached its end. I'd dismissed Jonathan's idea of a biography on the grounds that I wasn't yet ready to share the details needed to make it truthful. With a draft piece like that Lionel had shown me in existence, I begin to think there had been little point in dismissing it.

My need for air intensifies when I recall my most recent escapades. It was precisely the sort of thing the press lapped up.

_It was my final night in Copenhagen, and Hillary Clinton was recommending bath soaks to me. "The herbal ones are good for aches" she says, casually toying with an empty champagne flute, "They usually shut Bill up, any way". I sip my own champagne somewhat tentatively._

_I wanted to have my wits about me. I needed total focus. I had blamed the mild amounts of alcohol I'd consumed over the weekend for my my recent behaviour. It clouded your judgement, I eagerly told myself._

_"Economics is a tough business, huh?" Hillary remarks, studying me as I stretch my arms out in an attempt to remove the cramp in them. I really was getting old. Then again, I had been out of action for quite some time._

_"I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?" Hillary asks, looking to her watch suddenly. I smile and pray that my eyes don't betray my guilt. "No, no" I tell her, shaking away any notion of repeating the ridiculous mistake I'd now made two nights in a row, "I'm entirely yours."_

I'm met by the somewhat bemused expression of Charles Kennedy when I snap back into reality. I stood against the damp stone of the building, sheltered from journalists and wind alike. It was a poor spot for one fighting against a smoking addiction, but nonetheless I persevere. I hope to God that Charles doesn't begin our conversation where our earlier one left off.

"I'm heading back to Scotland tomorrow" my old friend begins, to my great relief, "Constituency surgery". He crushes his cigarette beneath his foot and slips his hands casually into his pockets.

"When was the last time you visited the mother land?" he asks. All this talk of inpendence had reignited my interest in Scotland. It would always remain important to me, as my place origin, but it no longer held the great, symbolic status I'd once believed it had.

"I can't remember now" I admit, "I've a feeling I might end up spending quite a bit of time there soon, with the referendum and everything". Charles smiles.

"So you really are getting back into it all" he welcomes, wrinkled cheeks glowing, "You're welcome to join me on the way up, if you'd like". My trip to see Angela Campion had been entirely spontaneous, and my adventures in Copenhagen were far from scripted. Disappearing to Scotland for a day or two didn't seem so extreme.

"Actually" I say, remembering something very important indeed, "There is something I need to do in Scotland". I was disappointed in myself for not remembering earlier.

"Eat a battered Mars bar?" Charles asks. I smile at him before glancing up at the sky fondly.

"No" I say, " _See John Smith_."


	104. Iona.

**12th June, 2014.**

**Isle of Iona, Scotland.**

_"An honest man's the noblest work of God"_. By that, I must be as ignoble as could possibly be. I'd been doing very well until John Smith had left my side. I was kinder, brighter, _better_. There were no Campions or William Lewis' or bizarre escapades in Copenhagen. John would have kept me in check, but he would never have judged me for the mistakes I made either.

I read the verse engraved on his headstone once more. Thin blades of grass covered its edges, but it remained intact. All around him were buried the kings and queens of old, hidden away on this blustery island in the middle of no where.

"I'm sorry I didn't come and visit sooner" I say, assured by the knowledge that I was entirely alone, "Quite a bit has happened over the last twelve months". That, naturally, was an understatement.

"I'm sorry I left the party this way" I go on, hoping that he was some how listening, or watching me from above, "I know you disapprove, but I really didn't have a choice". _How he'd have lectured me_. John had always been impeccably kind, but never afraid to tell me off where necessary.

_"You must remember to stay calm". The Shadow Chancellor paces about in front of me, pushing his wide glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "I know journalists are a nuisance" he cautions me, "But losing your temper only makes them smug". I listen dutifully._

_"An endorsement from me won't guarantee you that candidacy in Henley" he adds, tone softening, "Your local party will look for other qualities". I had indeed shouted at a journalist. I'd wanted to talk about Henley. The man who had approached me wanted to talk only about how rich my father was._

_"They want a candidate they can be proud of" John says, kind eyes looking down at me._

_"Even if I do win the candidacy" I say, "Just how slim are my chances?". Labour would lose no matter who the local party selected. Michael Heseltine was too grand a figure._

_"Not as slim as you think" John replies, "You're in a strong position". Half of my local party liked me, the other half was more cautious. They were traditional socialists, and I, simply, wasn't._

_"Your dad is like most of the local Tories" John tells me, "A Thatcherite. Most of them would love to see Heseltine humiliated, after what he did to their beloved in 1990. Especially if that humiliation came at the hands of Sir Douglas Nelson's eldest daughter". I wouldn't dare roll my eyes at John, no matter how tempted I was._

_"So I'm to pin my chances on my father?" I sigh. Perhaps that journalist had been right to quiz me on him. My father could convince his fellow Thatcherite to stab Michael Heseltine in the back, and I'd get elected. Coming fourth would be preferable to such a victory._

_"No, you'll pin your chances on you" John says, "Your father can help, but he can't win the seat for you. You have it in you to do well. So stop whining, and do it."_

Over twenty years had passed since then, and I had indeed done well. There had been several moments throughout my career when I'd wondered whether it had been such a good idea, to enter politics at such a young age. I'd been only too happy to hurry onto the front bench and into government. I was too young, too eager.

"Would I have gone so far astray if you were here?" I think aloud, "Would you have kept me in a junior position on the front bench until I was ready to move on?". Tony had always encouraged me, and I was grateful, but he had encouraged me _too_ much. When I was offered a top job in the Treasury in 1997, I leapt at the opportunity. When I was offered Defence three years later, I happily accepted. I was extremely appreciative of the promotions he had given me, of the faith he had in me, but John would never have been so bold.

"I know there's little point in guessing at what might have passed had you lived" I concede, overcome with sadness quite abruptly, "But I can't help but be curious."

"I always wanted to be as great as you, but I never could do it. And I think that's okay. I'm done with government now. I'm bored of trying to woo constituents."

"I was angry with our party for changing. The Labour I know is gone, and that's okay. I'm sad that I've only really begun to see that now. I don't need to support Ed's Labour. I've tried and failed to do that. I can, however, _accept_ it."

I remind myself of my surroundings and look about for any prying eyes. I'd spoken words I didn't realise I'd been holding it. I felt better when they were released.

John Smith had died twenty years ago. Twenty years in the grave, and still I could confide in him like no one else. I thought it a testimony to our friendship, that even in death he proved as close an ally as ever. No, he would not approve of the fuss I had caused in resigning from our party, but he would still greet me with a warm smile at the start of each day.

He wouldn't swear at me as Gordon had done, nor would he have made a series of jokes as Charles had done. Both men had tried to ask me numerous times whether or not I intended to remain an MP. I'd given very little away to either, dismissing their questions with a 'don't know'.

Standing before John's grave, with a gentle sea breeze tickling my cheeks, I find my mind begins to clear. Internal conflict dies away, and at last I'm able to find the answer I'd been searching for.

"In truth" I speak quietly, "I don't want to stand again. I've done my bit. I love Henley, you know I do, but I can't face another five years. I'm not as young and sprightly as I was. That's what Henley needs, instead of me. _Someone young and sprightly_ ".

My mind was made up. I'd have to visit Iona more often. It was a terribly good place for muddled people. I'd visited with the intention of paying my respects to John, only to come away drafting a speech of resignation in my head.

I'd stay on until the next election. That was only fair. I didn't know who would succeed me. _Another Labourite, or perhaps a Tory?_ I begin to think more boldly. _A stranger, or a Nelson?_

"This has been really rather therapeutic" I confess with a laugh, "I don't know what it is I'll do next. Perhaps I _should_ help Jonathan with his biography. It's one thing to admit the truth to yourself, but another to admit it to other people". _Honesty felt good_. Self-acceptance was a start, but it made me no more authentic in the eyes of everyone around me. Yes, admitting to all that I'd done of the past twenty years would be hard, but it would be worth it.

"That's another thing" I remember, thoughts as coherent as ever, " _George_."

"The Tory lad" I'm keen to add.

"In 1994, I told him that, for as long as I remained in this job, I could never be his" I say, "And then I married Lionel, and he gave me Emily. And George found happiness of his own and had his own children". I could feel another lengthy confession brewing. John would need an aspirin by the time I was finished.

"There were things I could have handled better, of course, but I'm sorry about the way things have panned out" I say, "I could have stayed with George and lived a much simpler life. But I wouldn't have Emily, and I wouldn't know as much as I do now."

How would my life ended had I stayed with George? Would I be standing here at John's grave side proud of my decisions, or full of regret? There were two realities I could envision, neither of them very good.

_Party conference, 1994. After the events of the previous night, I decide not to say farewell, but to reunite with him. I keep us secret for a short while, before crossing the floor and joining the government, but only for George's sake. And then comes 1997, and I'm met not with celebration but condemnation. I lose my seat, a traitor to both my party and my principles. 2001 dawns, and George enjoys more success than I. I dabble in journalism whilst he climbs ever higher up the greasy pole. And then 2010 is upon us, and I find myself in Downing Street, not as a plucky young minister, but a wife. I manage to one or two years, but I can't survive the rest of the term. The happiness we'd enjoyed as young lovers comes to an end with a divorce. I still suffer a cardiac arrest in August 2013, but I'm not so lucky in my recovery._

_Party conference, 1994. After the event of the precious night, I decide not to say farewell, but to reunite with him. George, albeit with gritted teeth, abandons the side of my opponents and establishes himself as a young Blairite. He hates Gordon, but respects Tony. I celebrate a sizeable victory in 1997, and George finds a seat of his own to win, near to my own. And in a few years time, he sits alongside me in cabinet. Tony trusts him, but Gordon doesn't. Still George hates him. In 2007, Tony leaves and Gordon assumes control. The crash comes, and the country is left without money. The Tories, barely changed under the leadership of David Davis, nip at Labour's majority in the 2010 election, but Gordon manages to hold on. Two years pass, and the country continues to struggle. George hates Gordon more than ever, demonstrating as much by organising a coup against him. And then I am dragged into the subsequent leadership election, and find myself taking Gordon's place. I am Prime Minister, but I don't want to be. I lead my party to defeat in 2015, and a vaguely charismatic Tory by the name of David Cameron replaces me. I'm glad to be free, but George is unhappy. He resents the man who kicked me from office, and family dinners are made incredibly awkward when George refuses to pass my victorious cousin the gravy._

My imagination might be running wild. It was entirely possible that neither reality would have been realised. It might all be a figment of my anxiety, my worry. There was probably a parallel universe in which I'd been very happy with George, but I did not live in that parallel universe. There were a number of things I could have done to improve our relationship, but I would never regret walking away from him at that conference in 1994.

"Copenhagen, that _bloody_ terrace" I sigh, "It's all been awfully confusing, but I think I've made my mind up about him too". I slip my hands into the pockets of my coat to shield them from the wind. My ferry would arrive soon, and back to the mainland I would go. I'd find a hotel to sleep in for the night, and then make my way down to Oxfordshire.

"I miss you, John" I whisper, voice quite lost in the howling of the air that circled up above me, "I miss you a great deal". I kiss the tips of my fingers gently and place them against the rough stone of John's resting place. He'd laugh at me for my sentimentality, but I didn't care. I just wanted him to know.

I walk slowly from his grave, snug and warm in my coat. These spontaneous visits of mine were proving rather effective. Perhaps I'd made a few more before the week was done?

* * *

 The home of Frederick Barclay is unsurprisingly grand. Excessively decorated and far too large for a family as small as that of Barclay, it made my own family home look like a cardboard box. I'd forgotten how tiring the journey from Scotland to England could be. From train to train I hopped, in a hurry and intent on avoiding attention. A couple of passengers had spoken to me on the way, and politely I'd given them each a minute or two. They'd have even more questions once I'd left.

"This should warm you up a bit". Fred sits a hot cup of tea in my outstretched palms. I let its heat spread through my hands before I set it down on the coffee table in front of me. Fred already sips on his own tea, perching down on the armchair opposite my own. "I'm glad you called by" he smiles, "You made that Bilderberg meeting much more interesting that it usually is". Quite casually he had told me his address in Northern England, suggesting that I call by at some point in the near future for a cup of tea. And so here I was, with that promised cup of tea. I hadn't visited purely on a social basis, of course. There was a more important reason for my visit.

"Did you enjoy your time in Scotland?" Fred asks courteously, "I was thinking of going up for a short holiday myself". Barclay's vision of a Scottish escape would no doubt involve deer stalking and fly fishing and terrible but light-hearted attempts at reeling at old-fashioned dances held in whatever grand old hall he found himself staying in. I wouldn't begrudge him that, for I'd enjoyed similar holidays in my youth. But my trip to Scotland, as brief as it might have been, had not been a holiday. In a bizarre, prophetical-type way, it had been a search for  _sense_ on my part.  I had crossed the border knowing much more about what it was I wanted in the coming months and years.

"It was an education" I tell my host. I wouldn't confuse Fred with the details of my admittedly odd moment of self-discovery. I would make polite conversation, drink my tea, and then admit to the real reason for my visit. It seems Fred himself wants to skip the first and moves on, perhaps for the best, to the third. "I get the impression you've called by with a purpose" he says, resting his cup down on its saucer, "And that purpose, I suspect, involves this troublesome editor you were telling me about". I smile.

"You understand perfectly" I reply, "I enjoyed The Telegraph once upon a time. I didn't always agree, as you might expect, but I respected it. I'm afraid I can't do that any more". Fred seemed to be a thoroughly decent man. The chances of him standing up for William Lewis were slim.

"I appear to have offended Lewis" I continue, "I made the mistake of briefly courting him. Now it appears he's intent on destroying what remains of my career". A troubled expression passes onto Fred's aged face. He takes another sip of tea and shakes his head.

"Dare I ask how it is he means to target you?" he queries. I wouldn't tell him all that had been contained in that draft spread Lionel had shown me. I liked Fred, but I didn't yet trust him enough to reveal _that_ much.

"I'm afraid I can't say" I tell him, no doubt to his disappointment, "But it reflects very badly on me". Barclay's expression switches to one of inquisition.

"My dear, I like you very much" he says, "But I'm not sure I can withhold important information about a senior parliamentarian from the public. Newspapers have a duty to share such things, do they not?". It was a snag I had already prepared for, and one that I knew I could get over.

"If that information revealed how I'd been avoiding tax, or exploiting my position, I'd offer no opposition" I reason, "The dirt that William Lewis has on me, however, isn't so criminal. I won't be arrested for what it is I've done, but it could ruin me". The attack drafted by The Telegraph did mention my tax arrangements, and how I'd allegedly avoided inheritance tax upon my father's death, but such details occupied very little of the two pages shown to me. Corruption or financial misconduct were worthy revelations, and had I been guilty of either offence, I'd have resigned years ago. Yet it was the more sordid, trivial things that occupied Lewis' mind. The public would lap up talk of Alex's parentage, destroying two careers, and a possible third, in the process.

"If you've done wrong, my dear, surely you ought to admit to it?" Fred argues, "People deserve to know of the wrongdoings of their representatives". I knew Fred bore me no ill-will. He was the proprietor of a newspaper, and newspapers needed to sell copies. I may have decided to quit my job, but he still had one to fulfill. Not that I'd relent in my campaign against Lewis just yet...

"I have done wrong, yes, but there are reasons for it. I do feel guilty about what it is I've done, and shan't pretend otherwise" I respond quietly, allowing myself some vulnerability, "Quite selfishly I acted in the interests of my career, but also in the interests of my party, and, most importantly, my _son_ ". As much as I regretted lying to Alex, I had, at the time, done so believing it would make his life easier. I was wrong, yes, but honourable to a degree.

"If you acted as a mother would, my dear, I cannot blame you" Fred softens, small smile gracing his cracked lips, "Lewis is a good journalist, but I don't think he's quite suited to my paper. I might recommend him to Murdoch when next I see him". I return his smile warmly. Another spontaneous visit, another weight removed from my aching neck.

"I'd be only too happy to suggest a replacement" I hint coyly. Fred arches an eyebrow.

"Oh?" he breathes, "Who did you have in mind?". A Telegraph employee that I approved of? One who was on my side, rather than Lewis'?

"Well, now that you mention it" I smile, "There's a rather good chap named Liam who might be worth considering."

* * *

It was dark by the time I made it to Henley-On-Thames, and even then I couldn't yet go home. There was one more thing I needed to do before the week ended. One more visit to make, and I would be content.

The council buildings in down are more or less empty when I arrive. In only two windows do I see light. They sit on opposite sides, the voices of one room drifting out of the open window. The other was quiet.

It's as I step inside and walk closer that I begin to make out some of that which they say. " _Traitor_ ". " _Deserter_ ". " _Blairite_ ". They were words angrily muttered, all by the same voice. I wait for cries of condemnation but no such protest comes. I imagined the others inside the room nodding.

My local party had not yet forgiven me, and, given the vitriol I sensed even standing _outside_ the room, I suspected they never would forgive me. With my head held high, I stride past, beyond offence. I had better people to impress.

The room on the opposite side of the building is comparatively quieter. From it, I hear no bitter words of hatred, only gentle discussion about _real_ issues. The Tories I was used to in Westminster behaved like children. The Tories gathered in this particular room are admiringly civil.

I hesitate before entering. I'd crashed a local Conservative association meeting once before, but on that occasion I'd been cushioned by the presence of Alex. I was alone now. Would they greet me as politely as they had before? I don't dwell on the possibilities, and instead push myself into reaching for the door knob.

"Ms Nelson!" the chairman of the meeting squeaks, leaping up from his seat. The members around him follow suit, wide eyes fixing on me. I clear my throat and observe them all in turn. There was no malice in their eyes, or distrust, only surprise.

The relax remarkably quickly. "This is unexpected" the chairman says, the faintest hints of a smile toying on his lips, "Can we help you?". I relax myself when I realise begin to notice others in the room smiling.

"I'm not lost, you needn't worry" I joke, "I just, _well_ , came to _say_ something". The chairman resumes his seat and watches me intently, as do his peers. None of them question me. I was grateful for that. It gave me the confidence to _get on with it_.

"I'm not standing for another term" I announce bluntly, "This time next year, I won't be your MP". Silence follows.

"Before you start celebrating" I add, taking advantage of the surprise of my audience, "I haven't yet announced this publicly, so I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourself". More silence.

Visibly stunned, the chairman opens his mouth and stutters a response. "We'll say nothing" he manages, "You have my word". His peers nod without a sound.

"Why tell _us_ this?" one of them calls out, understandably sceptical. I smile as I'm reminded of the last meeting I'd interrupted. Alex had stood where the chairman sat now, speaking remarkably eloquently for one so young.

"The next election is less than a year away" I reply, "You don't have a candidate. You'll face no opposition from me, so it appears you have a good chance of _finally_ getting your hands on this constituency". I'd split my local Labour Party. I was sorry to have stirred up such tensions, but I couldn't pretend to be too bothered by their poor prospects. There was no need to curse my name as they did.

With Labour in such a mess, the local Tories were presented with a real opportunity. For the first time since that fateful night in 1992, Henley might go _blue_. I wouldn't be replaced by a crusty old traditionalist, however. My successor needed to be better than that. And that was precisely why I had dropped in.

"The people here don't want some elderly, polished fellow shipped in from London. Nor do they want a creature dedicated to every line their party sets out" I address the gathering, "I've only managed to hold on to this seat for the last twenty years because I'm _different_ ". I hadn't always been quite as rebellious as I was now, but I'd never been a strictly loyal party member.

"Are you going to try and choose our candidate for us?" a voice asks sarcastically. A pair of eyes are rolled at me. _That was my trait._

"Not at all" I tell them, "I don't know who it is you'll choose, but I'll wish them well, all the same. I don't know who'll stand as your MP in a year's time. I don't know I feel they'll be red or _blue_ ". The chairman's brows rise. After a few moments of confusion, they settle, and he smiles.

"I think it's clear that we disagree. None of us have ever voted for you" he says, getting to his feet again, "But we do respect you. You've served the people here _well_. For their sake, we'll make our candidate a good one. And for you, we'll find a successor you can be proud of". Politics could be terribly depressing, but moments such as this reminded me why I'd survived in the business for so long. Decency could be found in one's opponents, just as disrespect could be found in one's own side.

"Which would you prefer?" one of the Tories shouts, "Labour, or _us_?". I smile at him.

"Henley deserves more than party politics" I answer honestly, "I don't know which is better for the people here, Labour or Conservative. It's their call. There is only one thing about this constituency that I am _sure_ of."

"And what's that?" the chairman asks. My smile broadens.

"It's only safe in the hands of a Nelson."

* * *

"Try and sound a little _less_ like an arrogant prat". I hadn't expected to hear words of abuse come from my own living room. Unlike those used by the ever charming members of my local Labour Party, they were uttered with a degree of humour. I'm told as much by the light chuckle that follows seconds later.

"If you're not prepared to listen" I hear Alex say, "I'll ask for Spock's opinion instead". The cat rubs itself against my legs, fluffy cheeks nestling into my tights. I pick him up gently and treat him to a stroke or two.

"Cut out the bit about the European Union" Isaac advises, "You sound too bitter". Alex tuts.

"You would say that" he argues, "You're a Lib Dem". I leave them to exchange barbs for several minutes, quietly amused by the searingly sharp insults they direct towards one another.

" _Fine_ " Isaac concedes, "You win on this occasion, my love". I can sense Alex's smugness.

"You make an excellent point" I hear George pipe up. I almost drop Spock. Alex had not told me that he would be visiting. A month, or even a _week_ , ago, I would have retreated to my study and locked the door, intent on avoiding him for as long as possible. I'd returned from Iona with an entirely new outlook on life. I wouldn't spoil it by running away from George. As he himself had said once, we were both adults.

With Spock still cradled in my arms, I push the door of the living room open. Before the fireplace Alex stands, spectacles pushed to the end of his nose as he reads carefully over the speech he holds. Isaac sits, sprawled on the sofa, whilst George occupies a nearby armchair.

"Oh!" Alex jumps, "Sorry, Mother, I didn't but realise you were here". He pecks my cheek like the doting son he was and pushes his glasses up to their correct position on the bridge of his nose.

"Hello, Ms Nelson" Isaac smiles, "Did you enjoy Scotland?". I return his smile gratefully. I really did like Isaac.

"Call me Liz, for goodness sake" I tell him, "And yes, I did. I've learnt quite a bit". My eyes turn to George, who averts his own gaze. I hadn't spoken to him since my trip to Copenhagen. Remarkably, I wasn't embarrassed any more.

"Have you finished reciting your Tory bullshit now?" Isaac asks Alex, rude but in jest, "Can I go and have a bath?". Alex narrows his eyes.

"Mind you don't fill it too much" he responds, "I know how liberals struggle to keep their heads above water". Isaac pulls himself up from the comfort of the couch and flicks a dark curl from his eyes.

"Why not join me so I can drown you?" he pokes. Alex folds the paper he holds and tucks it away into his pocket. "I think I'll take you up on that offer" he replies, "You'll probably need a Tory to keep you afloat, after all". Without further argument, Isaac leaves the room, shortly followed by Alex. They were an impeccable couple. Comfortable enough to poke fun at one another, but no less devoted.

"They work well together, don't you think?" I ask George, who had remained quiet until now. He looks up at me as though surprised by my attempt to talk to him. He was probably expecting me to avoid him, as I had done for weeks.

"I certainly approve" George nods, "They seem happy together". I study him silently for a moment longer. He wasn't as miserable as he had been in previous months, but he wasn't _himself_ either. Our conversation was made slightly easier by my own comfort. _I wouldn't hide any more._

"I didn't know you were visiting today" I say.

"I was planning on leaving before you arrived" George informs me, no offence intended, "I didn't think you'd want to see me". The Elizabeth of a week ago would have hidden from sight until he was gone.

"I'm not going to try and understand what happened in Copenhagen". I get to the point straight away. _I really wasn't hiding any more_. "It happened, and that's fine". George is confused.

"It is?" he questions, voice quiet, my honesty confusing him all the more. I give him a small nod to reassure him. Spock starts to fidget in my arms, so I set him down on the carpet carefully. He bounds up to George and rests in his lap.

"I think it's probably about time I told you something" I state clearly. Spock's presence removed any air of seriousness, but I would persevere.

"I know what you're going to say" George interjects, casually patting the ball of fluff now napping on his knee, "You don't love me. I understand, I do-". He cuts himself off when I start to laugh. I laugh only harder when it startles Spock from his sleep.

"That's the opposite of what I was going to say" I snort, surprised by my own happiness. George brushes the cat from his lap and gets to his feet. "I beg your pardon?" he asks.

"Don't faint" I warn, noting the way he sways slightly. He wasn't the first Tory I'd shocked this evening. I felt this particular revelation was every bit as important as my decision to stand down from Parliament.

"I don't understand" George mumbles. I roll my eyes. He was every bit as baffled as I had been after the _incident_ on the terrace all those months ago. It was an odd situation, but one I was comfortable with.

"I love you, you idiot" I assert. Deeply romantic proclamations of love had never been our thing. It was not a scene that would provoke tears of joy, but it was _genuine_.

"Why can I hear Elvis?" George asks suddenly, looking about the room with curious eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" I frown.

" _Elvis_ " he repeats, "I can hear him". For a brief moment I suspect I've stunned him into insanity, but then I start to notice the buzzing in my pocket. The familiar words of Can't Help Falling in Love drift out from its speaker. An incoming call from Gordon. I'd call him tomorrow, and tell him about my plans to join him in the green pastures of retirement. For now, however, I decline the call and slip my phone into my pocket again.

"Any one important?" George asks.

"Yes" I say, "But they can wait". Gordon would mind if he knew who it was I rejecting him for. Perhaps that was another thing I'd tell Gordon about. George. I make a private prediction of how many swear words he would use in his response to me.

"I never did like Elvis" George confesses. It had been a day, or week, of spontaneity, after all. Though this wasn't a confession I had been prepared for.

"I only listened to his records to keep you happy" he goes on, "I suppose you hate me now".

I take a step towards him, ignoring the pawing and mewing of Spock at my feet. "Oh, George" I say, " _I could never hate you_."


	105. Together.

**18th August, 2014.**

**Nairn, Scotland.**

I had never heard the national anthem of my people played on the piano before. Its delivery what somewhat choppy, but it was well-arranged. The slight hesitation with with Emily plays was no doubt caused by the fact that she had an _audience_. Even if that audience consisted of family, she remained nervous.

"Oh, isn't she marvellous" my mother gushes, watching her with tears in her eyes, "The union would be saved in an instant if this were televised across the country". I roll my eyes at her, confident that she could not see me. I grunt in pain when she pinches my ear shortly afterwards.

"I can see you, darling" she cautions. I want to slap Nevin when I catch him laughing, but I restrain myself in fear of further punishment. I was forty-two.

Nevin's amusement is short-lived. His grin is replaced by an expression of abject worry when the woman sat beside him gets to her feet, two empty tea cups in her hands. "Be careful!" he barks at her, startling her so much that she almost drops the cups. There is a loud _thunk_ as Emily loses focus.

"For goodness sake, Nevin" I snap at my brother, "She's two months pregnant". Claire shoots me an appreciative look before continuing on her journey to the kitchen. Nevin insists on following her. "He _cares_ about her" my mother beams, "He's a good boy". I would have hated the idea of Lionel _doting_ on me when I was pregnant with Emily. I didn't envy Claire in the slightest.

"You're too silly, Pa" Catherine tuts at her father. I titter under my breath. Nevin was indeed silly. He was _happy_ , though, and I would never begrudge him that.

"Where is Alex?" Mother asks suddenly, eyes still fixed on the graceful movements of Emily's fingers against the ivory keys of the piano, "The rest of my grandchildren are here". I see Helena shift in her seat from the corner of my eye.

"I told you, Mother" I remind her, fighting the urge to roll my eyes again, "He's busy organising that campaign of his". Emily stops playing for a moment and looks across the living room towards me. She sports a mildly bemused expression.

"It's odd" she says, "To think my brother might be my MP soon". Alex was a nineteen year old Oxford student who had some how managed to win the candidacy of a seat considered safe by his opponents. It was all too familiar for me.

"I do wonder whether he's too _young_ for it all" Mother worries, "I'm glad he has that Jewish friend of his to support him, at least". I'd corrected my mother on this so many times that it now felt pointless. She seemed to be under the impression that Isaac was nothing but a good friend.  A very, _very_ good friend.

"Did you enjoy that article I wrote about you the other day, Liz?" Fraser inquires cheekily.

"The one where you called me a 'gift to all Conservatives'" I reply, "It looked rather good on my fire". That particular edition of The Spectator had indeed met its end in my fireplace, but not before George had his fun with it.

_"Elizabeth Nelson is everything the Conservatives could have dreamed of" he drones, attempting an accent I had never heard before, "But they'll never have her". My brother had been quite complementary in his talk of me, but still George insisted on mocking the piece._

_"The Iron Lady of the Left?" he reads, disapproval evident on his face. I gently pluck the magazine from his hands and throw it onto the fire. I wouldn't give him cause to try any more bizarre accents._

_"It's not the greatest description of me, I know" I sigh, snuggling down beside him on the couch in an effort to stay warm. George arches an eyebrow at me._

_"It's not that" he corrects, "I'd just like to know why your brother thinks it okay to besmirch the name of Thatcher like this". I sit up sharply and aim a cushion at his head._

"Will you get married after the next election?" Helena questions, narrowing her eyes at me from across the room. She'd been rather smug when I'd told her about myself and George. From her endless gossiping she had formed three solid predictions: that I loved George, that I would stand down as an MP, and that Claire was pregnant.

"Will _you_?" I retort. She flips her auburn hair impatiently and looks to our mother for support.

"Mock my loneliness a little more, why don't you" she grumbles. My mother doesn't come to her defence, instead listing all the possible suitors she was aware of in the local area.

"I might go nationalist to annoy you" Helena jokes. All eyes except mine fix on her sharply. Had my father been alive and present, he would have choked on whatever drink he was swiging. I appreciated her humour, but our fellow Nelsons didn't.

"We don't talk of _nationalism_ here, thank you" my mother says curtly. With only a month left until the referendum, tensions were running high. Nevin had proudly proclaimed at dinner one evening that there was not a Nelson alive who supported the side of independence. My mother in particular had come to treat nationalists with the upmost suspicion.

"Oh, your poor cousin" she cries, reaching out to hold my hand, "I will not be happy if this whole sorry business costs him his job". David held onto the union as tightly as he could, with varying degrees of success. With every fibre of his being he fought for Scotland's sake, but with each passing moment independence became more likely.

"Gordon will save the day" I say, "He understands Scotland much more than David does". I admired my cousin for trying, but there was a limit to how much a Scot could trust an English Tory.

"I don't trust him" Mother says under her breath. I knew my father would have laughed at the idea of Gordon Brown saving the United Kingdom, but I believed it was possible. The speeches he had given already were really quite moving.

"Will The Spectator give an opinion, Uncle?" Emily asks, turning the page of her music and flexing her fingers.

"Of course" Fraser answers her, "Our readers would lynch us if we didn't state our position publicly". I could imagine Fraser printing the words ' _no, thanks_ ' on the front cover in bold black letters. Bizarrely, ' _no, thanks_ ' had become a slogan of sorts for the No campaign. If Scotland was to turn down an offer of independence, they'd best do it politely.

"Are you going to be on telly this evening, Aunt?" Catherine asks me with bright eyes, setting her book aside. I nod.

" _Newsnight Scotland_ " I tell her, "I haven't been grilled for a while. It should be fun". BBC Scotland had no Jeremy Paxmans or Andrew Neils. They were decent journalists, yes, but not infamous interrogators.

"I don't envy you. I'd hate to be questioned for a living" Emily comments, returning to her dabbling on the piano. Alex had started to ask me serious questions about my job when he was Emily's age. Emily didn't appear to be as interested. Whether or not that was a good thing, I did not know.

"Not interested in a career in Westminster, then?" Fraser asks. Emily shakes her head immediately.

" _God_ no" she replies. She didn't have the confidence of Alex, so it was probably wise that she didn't yearn for a career in the Commons, but I still felt somewhat disappointed by her lack of interest. Politics had become a big part of our family.

"Don't blaspheme, dear" my Mother warns softly.

* * *

"Ms Nelson, what _is_ so bad about an independent Scotland?". Glenn Campbell edges closer in his seat, notes in hand, sweating only slightly under the heat of the studio's lighting. As cool as can be, and for now silent, my adversary sits. The supposed grilling my family were expecting would not be initiated by Campbell, but by Nicola Sturgeon.

"An inpendent Scotland is bad solely _because_ it's independent" I answer, "There are a number of ways in which we can strengthen Scotland, but isolating it from the rest of the UK is not one of them". Sturgeon smiles.

"Independence would have a negative impact on the economy" I continue, keen to make my point before I'm interrupted, "I don't see much patriotism in economic self-harm". Sturgeon's smile broadens.

"This is exactly in line with the usual scaremongering of the No campaign" she chips in brightly, "It sounds as though Elizabeth has been reading from George Osborne's script". _Or George had been reading from my script._

"There is nothing wrong with warning people of the severe implications of inpendence" I argue. I did dislike the overwhelming negativity of my side of the referendum, but I felt no shame in putting particular emphasis on the economy. It would barely effect my own family, but I knew many in Scotland wouldn't be so lucky.

"But there is a problem in using false, overblown forecasts" Sturgeon challenges me directly. Campbell glances between the two of us, mild apprehension evident on his face. I'd once heard Sturgeon described as the nationalist version of _me_. I admired her spirit, without a doubt, but we were undeniably poles apart.

"Because the data put forward by the SNP, based on _oil revenue_  of all things, is completely accurate, isn't it?" I bite. I felt somewhat sorry for Campbell at this point. A glance at his notes told me that he had a number of points to make himself. He manages to regain control of the studio before our debate escalates.

"Ms Nelson is right, Deputy First Minister" he says, to the irritation of Sturgeon, "Forecasts for next year are already down on what you'd anticipated". The issue of a new currency made Scotland's possible economic failures all the more complex. Would would they trade in if they lost the pound? _Irn Bru_?

"Don't belittle Scotland's ability to _grow_ " Sturgeon urges, "Scotland can prosper on its own, and with the added bonus of not being in the control of _Westminster_ ". She spits the name as though it were poisonous on her lips. It was easy to distrust Westminster in the isolation of the far north. Even from Oxfordshire, on occasions, the Commons appeared silly.

"A democratically elected body in which Scotland is _very_ well represented" I counter, "If the SNP want greater control in Westminster, perhaps they ought to try a bit harder at the next election". Six seats out of a possible fifty-nine was really quite dismal.

"I think our performance at the next election might surprise you" Sturgeon smirks. I ignore that particular comment and open my mouth to return the conversation to inpendence. Campbell, once again consigned to silence, intervenes before he loses control again.

"Ms Nelson, you've already announced that you'll be standing down at the next election" he says, turning in my direction, "It's been suggested by Owen Jones in The Guardian that you'll venture into Scottish politics next. Have you considered that?". Surgeon's smirk is replaced by a thin smile. Whilst debating her in the chambers of Holyrood was appealing, my departure from Henley meant an end to all electoral ambitions, as far as I was concerned.

"I haven't, no" I reply, "This is my homeland, but I'm very much rooted in Oxfordshire now". _A fake Scot_. I had been waiting for Sturgeon to make some kind of remark about that, but it never comes. She had more tact that I gave her credit for.

"Another thing discussed frequently since the campaign began is Europe" Campbell moves on, "Should Scotland vote yes, Ms Nelson, will they no longer be members of the EU?". I'm filled with a small sense of dread. Europe was always a contentious subject, no matter who talked about it.

"At present, we are a member of the Europeans Union as a United Kingdom" I respond, "That does mean that by breaking away from the UK, Scotland also breaks away from the EU". The Scots were generally accepting of the EU, marking yet another difference with their neighbours south of the border.

"Should Scotland wish to reapply as an independent nation, they'll probably have to accept things like the Euro, and agree to be part of the Schengen Area" I press, spotting Sturgeon shift in her seat out of the corner of my eye, "All without the rebate that we secured under Mrs Thatcher". I wasn't sure mentioning Thatcher was particularly wise on a Scottish programme, on reflection.

"Scotland has been far more accepting and welcoming towards the EU than England ever has" Sturgeon challenges, "We can get a good deal with them". Im cut off before I can respond to her point.

"If the Tories win the next election, and David Cameron sticks to his promise of a referendum on Europe" Sturgeon adds, "Britain will be the one faced with a difficult negotiation". I very much approved of my cousin's idea of a referendum. I was entirely sure how I'd vote, if it went ahead, but the idea was one I was definitely supportive of.

"I think that's all we have time for" Campbell states clearly, "Deputy First Minister, Ms Nelson, thank you". He swings around in his chair and faces another camera. Out of view, Sturgeon and I get to our feet and walk quietly to the edges of the studio. Time had flown by remarkably quickly. I'd made it through the entire thing without breaking a sweat. Sturgeon was equally calm.

"It's shame you haven't considered Holyrood" she says, "You'd do a much better job than any of the fools representing Labour at the moment."

"Alas, I am no longer Labour" I smile. Sturgeon does the same, but the smugness is gone from her expression now.

"The Scottish Tories, perhaps?" she ponders, "I know you get along very well with Ruth Davidson". I allow myself a small chuckle. Kissing Ruth Davidson at that pride parade all those years ago had made for quite an image. I was rather proud of it, so much so that I'd made it my banner on Twitter for several months.

"So much has been crammed into these past twenty years" i sigh, "I'd like a _rest_ ". We walk slowly along the corridor towards the front of the building, but I stop dead in my tracks when I feel a short, sharp pain erupt in my chest. I definitely needed a rest.

"Are you alright?" Sturgeon asks, worry flashing in her eyes. My poor health had been well reported last year. The slightest twitch in me was met with panic.

"I'm perfectly fine" I tell her, rubbing the spot that hurt, "It's just my heart breaking at the thought of Scotland going independent."

* * *

The house is quiet when I return. Not entirely silent, though, for still the gentle sounds of a piano echo through the hallway. I hang my coat up and shake off my heels. Most were asleep by now, but faintly, just about audible beneath the sound of Emily's late-night playing, I can hear my mother's voice.

"You're very late, dear" she yawns, reaching back from where she lies on the couch. By the dim light of the sitting room Emily plays, quieter and softer than before. A Jane Austen novel lies open on my mother's lap. It was gentle entertainment for a gentle night. There was no longer a television in the sitting room, only my father's old radio in the corner.

"I'd get to bed if I were you, Emily" I suggest, "You'll be ever so tired tomorrow". Emily nods dutifully and carefully sets the lid of the piano down. She crosses the room and swoops down to kiss her grandmother goodnight. I wish her a good night's sleep when she pecks my own cheek. She was fourteen now, and still relatively unaffected by the usual moodiness of adolescence. Neither of my children had been typical teenagers. They were much nicer than I had been at their age

"She's a most enchanting girl" my mother muses, clinging on to my hand, "I have such lovely grandchildren". I would have to wait out her sentimentality.

"Are you sure your Alex is doing the right thing?" she asks suddenly, sitting up to face me properly, "He's ever so young". I smile. I was quite self-critical about entering parliament at such a young age. In retrospect, I could now see how I'd been ushered into positions of great responsibility too quickly. _Alex would know better_.

"He'll be just as young as I was when first elected" I say, "And without my foolishness". Alex was sensible, and not overly headstrong. I had been stubborn and hot-headed.

"But what about his education?" Mother worries, "His degree should come first, surely?". From what I had been told, Alex was doing exceedingly well at Oxford. Somewhat distracted by the chaos of student politics, no doubt, but a decent student all the same.

"Did I not get a First in my own degree?" I reason, "He's far brighter than I ever was". My mother appears slightly more comforted.

"Yes, yes" she mumbles to herself, sinking back down into the comfort of the couch, "Very lovely grandchildren". I make for the doorway of the sitting room, but stop before I disappear into the hallway.

"Mother, if I might just say" I advise softly, "I think it might be best if you avoid talking about grandchildren around Helena". I hadn't realised just how frustrated my sister was. She seemed to be genuinely disappointed in herself for not having children. Our mother had made her own desires known early on. Indeed, once she was over the initial shock of my first pregnancy, she had become an ecstatic grandmother-in-waiting.

_The television was still there. It was rather a large and clunky thing, but it was there, entertaining the family that gathered around it. It cast rays of colour that danced upon the dusty crimson carpet below, where a fourteen year old boy sits, cross-legged._

_Keeping Up Appearances was a very popular programme in the Nelson household. Most of us appreciated it for its wonderful characters. My mother simply sympathised with its comically snobbish protagonist._

_"Do we know anyone called Hyacinth, Mother?" Ian asks from where he sits before the television screen._

_"One of the ladies from the WI is called Hyacinth" Mother answers, before turning her aging eyes towards me, "That's another name to add to your list, Liz. Hyacinth". Nevin snorts over his tea._

_"Hyacinth Nelson" I ponder aloud, "The poor creature". My mother shrugs and turns her eyes back to the antics unfolding on television._

_"Why not Margaret?" Father chips in, resting his whisky on the arm of his chair.  Nevin jerks his head at that particular suggestion._

_"I'm not naming my child after Thatcher" I sigh. Father looks genuinely disappointed._

_"Norman?" he adds hopefully. I roll my eyes and rest a hand on my growing stomach. It was February. In a few months, I'd start to swell. I didn't really look forward to looking like a whale._

_"Or Tebitt" I say, "Perhaps Barbara". My family air sounds of disgust in unison. I knew Barbara Nelson sounded daft. If they proposed naming my child after their heroes, I'd make similar suggestions. Barbara Castle had always been a favourite of mine, after all._

_"Hillary?" I go on, with the admittedly beautiful First Lady of the United States in mind, "Gordon?". My family dislike both suggestions, though Nevin does appear to be slightly more keen on Hillary._

_"Take a good, old Nelson name" my father pipes up, earning a sharp glare from Mother as he talks over the sound of the television, "Alexander". Alexander Nelson sounded rather stiff. An Alex, perhaps?_

_"You see, Helena" Nevin grins, amused by the discussion that unfolded, "You have all of this to look forward to". The girl looks up from her magazine and arches a meticulously shaped eyebrow at her brother._

_"What if I don't have children?" she challenges. It is my mother who interrupts the television now, greatly irritating little Ian._

_"I expect at least one grandchild from all of you" she announces, like a queen delivering her annual speech to parliament, "And all as legitimate as possible."_

Helena did not have any children. I still maintained that she didn't need them, that she shouldn't feel obliged to put her career aside to keep our mother happy. Yet the seed was already planted in her mind.

"I'm getting old" Mother sighs, "Life becomes quite frightening, sometimes. I suppose grandchildren simply remind me that there is something to be gained from the future". Her five children had done very well indeed. Two edited magazines, one was an MP, one had gone from success in finance to popularity on the local council. One had been a brilliant academic. I convinced that Ian would have become one of Oxford's greatest minds had God been a little more merciful on that day last August.

"You'll have to give me another Alex or Emily, Liz" my mother jokes, eyes drooping tiredness threatens to take her. I help up her up to her feet and ease her along the floorboards towards the staircase.

"Alas" I tell her, the aching in my chest returning only fleetingly, "I'm too busy trying to save the United Kingdom."


	106. Scotland.

**18th September, 2014.**

**An otherwise quiet hospital in London.**

"I'm discharging myself."

I wanted to be clear in my intentions. For twenty-four hours I'd lingered in a hospital bed, forced into another unflattering white gown. _A slight murmur_ , that was all that I had felt. Since August I had put up with tiny pains in my chest, but only a few days ago had I made the mistake of mentioning them.

And so here I now found myself, struggling with a somewhat exasperated Alex. "I'm perfectly fine" I insist, and not for the first time, "Let me go". He holds onto my wrist tightly, preventing me from moving any further from the bed. Isaac blocked the door, whilst George stands ready to tackle me in the corner. Stopping my escape had become quite the mission.

"This is for your own good" Alex tells firmly, "I won't have you risk your health like this". Of course they were concerned. Given that I had been in a coma twelve months ago today, they had every right to be. _But I was fine_.

"It's referendum day" I remind him, "I won't be idle". The last month had flown by. The polls had tilted to and fro, and new threats had been made. As I had predicted, Gordon had flown in and made another series of barnstorming speeches in support of the union. He'd promised to visit me soon. I thought Scotland was much more important.

"What, are you going to head off to the border again and tackle a nationalist?" George snorts, sizing my admittedly feeble form up.

"Who's side are you on?" I bite bitterly. He was intent on me staying put until all the necessary tests could be carried out. Numerous times I'd told him that I was absolutely fine, but he refused to listen to me.

"Oddly enough, my dear, _yours_ " George replies brightly, settling back down into the seat he had dragged to my bedside. Isaac relaxes his grip on the door handle. I take advantage of their weakness and make a break for it. "For _goodness sake_ , Mother" Alex bellows, seizing me by the waist and forcing me back onto the bed, "What exactly have they been giving you here?". That was something I could credit the hospital for. The medication they'd given me had made me rather sprightly.

"I think I should probably head back to Downing Street" George says, reaching for his coat, "David is probably out cold by now". I nod and, calmer this time, slip off the bed again.

"A good idea" I agree, following him towards the door, "Let's go". He stops me before Alex can grab me again.

"No, you'll stay here until it's safe to let you go" George tells me firmly, "I think your health is probably more important than a referendum". He slips his coat on and, when Isaac feels it's safe enough to move away from the door, stretches his hand towards the handle.

But it is turned before he can touch it. Fluidly the door swings open, and there standing in its frame is a butch-looking, but relatively short, man with a head of grey hair. Heavy bags and wrinkles lie under dark eyes, one artificial, the other real. He instantly intimidated every other man in the room. From me, however, he elicits only a smile.

"Gordon!" I greet, hugging him before he can protest, "I didn't expect to see you so soon". He withdraws a slightly limp bunch of flowers from behind his back and gives me a kind smile. "I worry about you more than I worry about Scotland" he says. George observes the man uneasily, but gradually softens his expression.

" _You see_ " he chimes. He visibly regrets his words, however, when Gordon turns his beady eyes towards him. I'd been witness to a number of spats they'd had in the Commons. I'd long been a great admirer of George's wit, but Gordon had, most of the time, managed to outsmart him all the same. David had once told me that George privately referred to Gordon as a ' _bastard_ '.

"Osborne" Gordon nods, "Shouldn't you be enjoying your chancellorship while you can?". A muscle in George's face twitches slightly.

"Unlike you, Gordon, I haven't spent mine dreaming of the premiership" he retorts, "Besides, thanks to your _valiant_ efforts, my chancellorship is in no way threatened". My eyes dart between the two. I'm too intrigued to intervene. Alex seems to be more wary.

"Not threatened by _independence_ , no" Gordon mutters, "I'd caution you against being too cocky, however". Their tempers became ever more inflamed, whilst my own cooled. Their exchange distracted me from my desire to escape.

"Says the man who spent a decade waiting to be crowned" George seethes, dark eyes narrowing at his old adversary. Alex takes a step forward, hands raised ever so slightly. My interest was too great for pacifism.

"Come along now, gentlemen" my son advises, "This isn't the House of Commons". Gordon and George stare at one another for another moment longer, before shaking their heads and looking to me with renewed smiles.

"You really must excuse me now, I'm afraid" George says, after a minute or two of stilted polite conversation, "I have Gordon's budget deficit to pay off". He makes a point of kissing my cheek in front of his old enemy, before leaving the room. Alex, with Isaac in tow, follows him to say goodbye in the corridor.

"How are you feeling?" I ask my old friend, settling back down on the bed. Gordon lays the flowers down on my bedside table and assumes George's seat. " _Confident_ " he says, "It'll be damn close, but I think we'll do it". It was 8am now, meaning the polls would close in just about fourteen hours.

"Never mind the referendum" Gordon adds sharply, reaching down to retrieve something from his bag. I arch an eyebrow.

"An interesting thing to say _on_ referendum day" I comment. A fresh copy of The Telegraph is set down on my lap. I study it quietly for a moment or two, before looking to Gordon with widened eyes.

"Lionel said they'd try and get me close to the referendum" I say, "But why wait until _now_? With media attention focused on more important things?". Gordon opens the paper for me and flicks through until he finds the desired page. Or, if the draft had been adhered to, _pages_.

"Either they think our side will win, leaving the SNP desperate to discredit you" Gordon replies, "Or, their new editor is slightly more sympathetic". I hadn't seen Fred Barclay for many weeks now, so I'd never been told whether or not he actually intended to ditch William Lewis. I wondered why Lionel hadn't told me.

I glance over the two-page spread in front of me. Already I can tell it has changed. The most damaging of the stories owned by The Telegraph, next to which photos of Eva Smith's letter and Alex had been featured, had been replaced by one discussing my finances. For once I was relieved.

Other, less damning stories also appeared. The tale of how I'd inadvertently cost the old Chief Constable of Thames Valley Police his job, after asking for information that I had no right to. A copy of a memo I'd written way back in 2003, making a less than complimentary comment about Dr David Kelly, the poor weapons expert who had been so unfairly treated by me. The somewhat humorous revelation that Peter and I had bet on the outcome of the last general election.

The picture of George and I as students, however, remained. Accusatory words of deceit and sleaze had been removed. Instead, The Telegraph had printed a small piece revealing that the two of us had not been friends, as we both publicly claimed, but a couple. I found I didn't mind much at all. It was the truth, and I'd come to have a high regard for the truth.

"Well I'm not surprised by any of it" Gordon remarks, focusing in particular on the piece that detailed the bet between Peter and I.

"Am I finally free of them?" I ask hopefully. Gordon smiles kindly.

"I certainly hope so" he says. I read the articles put before me again. None of them made me nervous. I could expect no hoardes of journalists waiting for me outside the hospital. In a way, I was rather glad The Telegraph chose today. My colleagues would need something to distract them from their worry.

"Are you sure you're alright, Liz?" Gordon questions.

"Absolutely fine" I answer earnestly. Even my doctors here had conceded that the occasional pain was likely, as were spells of dizziness and fatigue. I could survive all of that. I was miles away from Scotland, yes, but I still wanted to feel that I was actually _doing_ something.

"Let's get you discharged, then" Gordon says, rising to his feet. I blink at him as he makes for the door.

"Heavens, am I finally being released?" I cry. I'd be especially grateful to get out of this horrid hospital gown.

"You're no use to me cooped up in here" Gordon says, "We're going."

And as he leaves the room to track down one of my doctors, I leap, rather like a child, down from my bed and sift through the case Alex had delivered to me.

When Gordon returns, with one of said doctors in tow, I'm dressed. I wear a fitting navy blue skirt with a slim blazer to match. Beneath it I wear a plain white blouse, and to my lapel I pin a badge Charles had given me a few days ago, the friendship flag of Britain and Scotland, red white and blue stripes all intertwined. I check my watch. _8:34_. There was time aplenty to save the union yet. 

* * *

Soapboxes were rather old-fashioned. Quite often, in the eighties and early nineties, I had seen men take a stand atop old boxes, venting their frustrations to the crowds gathered around them. It had always been a relatively effective way of voicing ones grievances. And so here, on the green in the shadow of the Palace of Westminster, I find myself preaching to my audience, made up of a number of Scottish colleagues and passing Londoners.

It wasn't as grand a setting, or as great audience, as that of Gordon's last speech, but I knew I wouldn't be content unless I said _something_. I was most grateful when a small camera crew from the BBC appeared.

"I'm not a very good Scot" I admit, "I enjoy a glass of whisky at the end of the day. Perhaps two on Burns Night". That wasn't strictly true, but I was certainly a fan of scotch.

"I left Scotland when I was thirteen years old. I'm happy to have lived in England ever since" I go on, "But I've never forgotten where I came from. True, I probably could visit more than I do, but I don't stop being a Scot when I cross the border into England again". Gordon watches me intently. I got the impression he was itching to speak again.

"The nationalists seem to be under the impression that Scotland's strength lies only within the confines of its border" I say, "But in reality, its strength lies in its ability to reach out and make an impact on a much bigger stage. I'm a child of Scotland, but as part of the United Kingdom I've been allowed a much greater chance of success". I knew the SNP would purposely misinterpret my words. ' _Elizabeth Nelson doesn't think Scotland is good enough!_ ', they would probably angle for.

"Could the country find its way should if vote for independence? _Probably_. Independence presents a thousand difficulties, but I know the Scottish people can rise to the task. Scotland _could_ manage on its own" I concede, prompting many a frown amongst my audience, "But it deserves to do more than _manage"._ Frowns are turned to smiles, and light applause ripples through my previously confused audience.

"Scotland's best days lie ahead, but I sincerely believe they can only be its best days if we stick together" I conclude, tiring of Gordon's fidgeting, "Will it be easy? Absolutely not. I know as well as any Scot that England can be a complete pain in the arse at times, but we _must_ stick together if we're to prosper as I know we can."

"There's already too much division in this world" I say, looking across the green towards the glittering of the Thames in the distance, ever the dramatist, "Let's not add to it". I nod to my witnesses and jump down from the box. The people around me applaud and pat me on the back. Gordon hops up the moment my own feet meet the grass of the green.

I catch sight of the BBC advancing in the corner of my eye. I wasn't entirely contented yet. More and more I was beginning to regret not staying in Scotland. A big No campaign rally would be the perfect arena for me on this particular afternoon.

"Ms Nelson" a man in a dark suit says, stepping directly in front of the BBC crew before they can get to me. I try and look over his shoulder, but my height, or rather _lack_ of it, prevent me.

"Hello" I greet the man cautiously, "I think the gentlemen behind you are trying to-".

"If you could follow me, Ms Nelson" the man states clearly. He walks away without another word, only stopping once he reaches a black car that waits at the edge of the green. Its windows were tinted, and in the driver's seat I could see an equally stiff-looking fellow. If the man had been wearing darkened sunglasses, I would have laughed the situation off as the beginning of a makeshift spy thriller.

"Might I ask your name?" I question the man, curiosity too great to resist walking over. The man blinks at me in response and reaches for the handle of the passenger seat door.

"David?". A somewhat chubby specimen with a remarkably pink face confronts me. Huddled, red box close to his chest, he sits in the car, as though frightened its very frame would bend inwards and crush him.

"Don't linger on the pavement" my cousin urges, blue eyes darting about nervously, "Get in". The man in the dark suit only blinks at me all the more. With a final glance at Gordon at his finest, lecturing his attentive audience on the merits of unionism, I do as I'm told.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" I ask, now aware of the growing beads of sweat that dot about my cousin's forehead. David withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at them.

"How are you so _calm_?" he poses disbelievingly, "I think I'm going to go into cardiac arrest". I shoot him a stern stare.

"Sorry" he says quickly, "I am rather terrified, though. I'll be ruined if those people vote Yes". My right eyebrow creeps up ever further. David, _as always_ , had his priorities right.

"And the people of Scotland?" I ask. David casts his handkerchief down defeatedly and hits his head against the red box he holds. The blow appears to knock a bit more sense into him.

"You mustn't think I don't care about them" David says, looking to me with considerably calmer eyes, "I suppose I'm just frightened of being a _flop_ ". It would be a terrible legacy. Not only had David failed to win a majority in the Commons, he could yet be responsible for the break-up of the UK. He and I had many disagreements, but the thought of any family member of mine being left in such a position _saddened_ me.

As the car rolls along the busy streets of London, destination unknown to me, I'm reminded of another car journey shared with David. Questions of independence were not asked back then. Instead, I had been left to wonder whether or not my cousin would make it to the border without vomiting.

_No. The thoroughly unpleasant sound of retching to my right makes me huddle up ever more against the car door. I'd asked my aunt many times to pull over, but she'd insisted that we carry on, passing my poor cousin an empty carrier bag in case of an emergency._

_"We should have taken the train with the others" a weary David says, resting his head back against his seat and taking a deep breath._

_"Or you could have controlled yourself at the bar last night" I swipe. I was nearing my fourteenth birthday, and already becoming accustomed to the less than wise antics of my cousin. 'He's being led astray', my mother insisted, 'It's those damn Bullingdon boys!'. I was more inclined to believe that my cousin was, in essence, something of an arse._

_"That's not quite fair" David argues, "We were celebrating". I roll my eyes._

_"You were celebrating" I correct. A small smirk appears on David's pale face._

_"Your father wins a government contract, one that will make him millions, and not a smile from little Liz" he teases, an arrogant prat even in illness, "Oh, of course, Thatcher was involved. It must be bad". I roll my eyes again. I was only very young, but I knew my own mind. I would have made as much clear to Mrs Thatcher when she had called by, but my mother had made a point of keeping me away._

_"Goodness, is that a bump I see up ahead?" I ask with mock intrigue, glancing out of the window. David's smirk lingers for only seconds longer, after which he is sent lurching forward, white skin turned a peculiar shade of green._

_"How long will it be until we reach that damn country?" David groans, not so handsome in his current dishevelled state. I smile with glee and keep my own vision focused on the passing trees and fields outside._

_"I don't know" I answer, "But I do hope we take the scenic route."_

David had mellowed since then. He was irritating, yes, but no where near as cocky as he had been. Colleagues on my side of the House hated him for his arrogance and seemingly unrelenting confidence. That version of David was now quite a false one, but one I had been subjected to for years growing up.

"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, suddenly beginning to question why exactly the car was moving.

"Downing Street" David tells me, relaxing his grip on the red box.

"Why?" I question. I hadn't been to Downing Street for years now. It would be quite odd to walk its uneven paving stones and see its peeling black doors again. I didn't miss it, as I had done in 2010.

"So we can watch the results" Davids says. I had intended to watch the night unfold in the comfort of my own apartment, where I could either celebrate or weep in private.

"Sam has taken the children away for the week" David adds, "Your side of the family are scattered between Oxford and Nairn. _We ought to stick together_ ". My cousin seemed to be labouring under the impression that we would burn together. I'd already announced my intention to resign from my position. Independence didn't threaten me as it threatened David.

"And don't think I don't know that you discharged yourself from hospital, earlier" David says disapprovingly, "We can look after you in Downing Street". The car slows as we approach the gates. Tourists are asked to move out of the way of the road, and then along that famous street we roll. It was odd to view it all from a tinted car window.

"I'm not an old woman" I scoff. David straightens his tie and makes one last effort to remove all signs of nervousness from his face.

"No" he says, as the dark-suited man opens his door for him, "But I've a feeling you might be turning grey by the end of this evening."

* * *

 _9:50pm_. David had not gone grey, but he was losing considerable amounts of hair at the back of his head. He had been strategic in his combing, making sure just the right amount of hair was swept over his growing bald patch.

He looked any where but the television. He hadn't retreated into his flat on the floor above, but into one of the many cabinet office rooms below. Squeezed in at desks meant for civil servants, we watch nervously. Or rather, I watched. The results programme that would follow at ten hadn't even started yet, and already David was flinching.

He leaps several feet into the air when the door behind us is opened. "Oh, thank _God_ " my cousin sighs, beckoning towards the thin figure in the doorway, "Did you ask catering to send across a bottle of gin on your way?". George slips his hands into his pockets and studies his friend with a bemused expression.

"You need to stay _calm_ " he advises, "You'll burst a blood vessel if you keep panicking". David scratches his chin.

"But would the gin _really_ be such a bad idea?" he hopes. I'm tempted to slap him. Hitting his own head with his red box had done the trick earlier.

"Yes, it would" George says, "Just relax. You've done all you can now". He approaches and lays a comforting hand on my cousin's shoulder. David pats it appreciatively. It was rather interesting, to see their friendship so intimately. I'd spent a great deal of time with both, only separately. It was quite refreshing to see a prime minister and chancellor _get on_ after the chaos that had been the relationship between Tony and Gordon.

"Actually, Liz, could I have a word?" George asks politely. I nod and leave David to wallow in his own concern, alone. I thought it a great shame that Sam was not around. She wouldn't have hesitated about slapping him.

"Why did you discharge yourself?". George rounds on me the second the door is closed. I frown. It had been against his instructions, I had to admit, but I was in no way obliged to follow him completely.

"Because I'm fine" I remind him. George tuts.

"You're too careless sometimes" he criticises, "You could so easily have been _not fine_ ". I allow myself a light chuckle. I wouldn't bore him with the complications of my condition, but I did want him to understand them, and, better still, _understand why they did not signal impending death_.

"Am I too careless?" I ponder, "Or do you care too much?". George appears offended by the suggestion. Perhaps it was a little harsh of me, to begrudge him a heart.

"You were in a coma twelve months ago. I almost lost you. I won't be put there again, do you understand?" he says quietly, no doubt cautious of attracting attention from David, "Of course I care too much". I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead gently give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

" _I'm fine_ " I reiterate, "You're stuck with me now". George's seriousness is replaced by quiet happiness. He was certainly much more chipper than my poor cousin was. He had as much to lose as David did in the event of a Yes vote.

"On the subject of being _stuck_ with people" George clears his throat. I expect him to make a comment of some kind about the union, but instead he takes a different route.

"I don't know how things will pan out at the next election. I'm optimistic, obviously, but I can't be _sure_ " he says, not releasing my hand, "What I can be sure of, however, is that you'll no longer be an MP-". I cut him off with my eyes.

"Get to the point" I urge. George nods dutifully and clears his throat a second time.

"We're not getting any younger" he says rather bluntly, "So, I wonder if you might consider-"

" _IT'S STARTING_ " David bellows. I take a deep breath before stepping inside the room again. There's a flicker of disappointment in George's eyes, but for now, and with David close to meltdown, he would have to wait.

* * *

I looked upon a map that had been coloured in various different shadows of red. Only in the areas about Glasgow did I see the green of independence. For weeks I had worried. I gave a brave face, of course, but part of me always feared events would turn the other way.

"That's that then" I say quietly, studying the map once more on the screen of my phone. The BBC had shown it many times since the early hours. The more intense shades of red signalled the areas of the country that had voted most emphatically against independence, whilst the the lighter shades indicated those areas that were not so sure. _But most were red_. 6:23am. Thirty minutes ago, the words 'Scotland votes No' had appeared on our television below stairs. There had been several seconds of silence, before an eruption of joy. Civil servants and advisers like leapt up into the air. David nearly sent his tea flying across the room, and in a flurry of excitement I had quite literally jumped on George.

Now I was calm again, but no less cheerful. The kitchen in David's apartment provided better phone signal. Alex had enjoyed himself. He sounded incredibly groggy, so I could only assume he and Isaac awaited the result in a student bar. I could imagine Lionel and Emily celebrating quietly over breakfast, quite the contrast from the Nelsons north of the border, who, I expected, would continue their party all weekend. My home town had voted No. That pleased me more than anything.

"Nevin seems happy" I smile, walking into the living room with eyes on my phone, re-reading the many happy text messages my brother had sent to me, "I'd imagine he's-". I look up and stop dead in my tracks. David sat before the television, tie undone and shirt creased. He didn't watch the news, nor any other gentle morning programme. Instead, the screen showed scantily clad women gesturing suggestively at the men around them. Breasts, and various other parts of the body that did not belong on television at such an early hour, were easily visible.

"What the _hell_ are you watching?" I splutter. David starts and jumps up from the couch. He blushes and fumbles about with the remote to pause whatever it was he had been enjoying.

"I thought I'd take advantage of the children's absence" he mumbles. My confusion only deepens. This would be yet another anecdote I'd relay to Jonathan for his book. _The time I caught my somewhat red-faced cousin watching something rather inappropriate_.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask.

" _Game of Thrones_ " David tells me, the redness in his cheeks turning to pink, "It's, well, for _mature_ audiences". I'd heard mentions of Game of Thrones, but never been tempted to watch it. The likes of Pride and Prejudice and Poldark had always been more suited to me. David had a real eye for fantasy. He was a Tory, after all.

"You've won what is quite possibly the most important vote of your career" I say, "And you're watching soft porn". David coughs suddenly and violently. The redness returns to his face.

"It's _not_ " he argues, mouthing the word _porn_ , "It's a perfectly good programme that I highly recommend". The door of the flat opens, and in walks a visibly buoyant George.

"What are you watching?" he asks, looking to the television with narrowed eyes. David jumps in front of the screen defensively. "He's watching soft porn" I say, winking in the direction of my cousin.

"It's not porn" he grumbles. This _Game of Thrones_ was certainly much more _mature_ than the Lord of the Rings films Alex was so often glued to. I'd stick to Downton Abbey.

"The press team downstairs want to know when you'll be making a statement" George says, ignoring the somewhat _compromising_ position the character on the paused screen was in. David fixes his tie and pushes the loose strands of brown hair from his eyes.

"A statement, yes" he mutters to himself, tearing himself from whatever seedy world Game of Thrones had taken him to, "Should we wait until Salmond says something?". I snort. That was one particular domino that was bound to fall.

"He'll resign" I say, "It would be impossible for him to stay after this". George is a little more reserved in his glee at the prospect of Salmond leaving office.

"And we'll thank him for his dedication to public service" he suggests. He had long maintained that he was much more immature than I. That was, in fairness, true, but George lacked the cockiness that I was so often plagued by. He was far more level-headed, and less impulsive. _Rather like Alex_.

"It's really happened, then?" David questions, tired blue eyes darting between the two of us, "We've really won?". _55% No, 45% Yes. We were safe_.

"We've won" George confirms. David nods calmly. His initial joy had subsided by this time, replaced instead by quiet realisation. It was as though he'd realised just how close he had come. The expression on his face reminds me a great deal of that Gordon had sported on the morning of the general election in 2010. Gordon, of course, hadn't been quite as lucky as David.

"I need to call Sam" David decides abruptly, withdrawing his phone from his pocket and walking from the living room to make his call in private.

"I feel rather proud of him, actually" I admit as I watch him hurry away. George grins.

"I'll tell him you said that" he says. I slap him gently on the arm and take one final look at that beautiful, incredible red map. Scotland votes No. I'd done my bit. I could end the year far more content than I had been when I'd started it.

" _Well_ " I sigh, tucking my phone away, "What mountain of stress awaits us now?". George's gaze darkens.

" _The general election_ " he mumbles. The questionable scene depicted on the television was easier to face.

" _Ah_ " is all I can manage in response. I was ready to leave parliament, and greatly comforted by the prospect of my own son replacing me, but I had fought too many an election to know that it would be far from an easy ride. The weeks would drag on, and I'd find myself in a terrible position. It would be impossible for me to stay silent. Even if I wanted to remain silent for the entirety of it, the press would get to me in one way or another.

 _'How do you intend to vote, Ms Nelson?'_ they would quiz, _'Who would you like to see as prime minister?'_. In the eyes of the public, I was stuck between the man I had already condemned by resigning from my party, and the only man able to challenge him.

"It won't be easy, will it?" George breathes, " _Us._ "

"I'm not going Conservative, George" I state plainly. To quote myself from my time in Copenhagen, _I wasn't a total wanker just yet_.

"I'd never ask you to" George says, "But who will you fight for? I know you too well to assume that you'll sit it out". He was right. I'd told Nevin earlier in the year that I didn't intend to get involved at all in Scotland's passing referendum. That had turned out to be complete bullshit.

"You'll have to pick one of us" George continues, fixing me with his dark eyes, "So who will it be?". _Cameron or Miliband?_ That question was bound to be put to me repeatedly. Family, or the estranged friend that I still deeply cared for?

"The only person I'll be _fighting_ for" I conclude, "Is Alex". I'd wear no rosettes, or join the local conservative association in their canvassing, but I would stand by him.

"Alex" George nods, stern expression replaced by a gradually smug one, "A _Conservative_ ". The Elizabeth of twenty years ago would have fainted at the thought of placing my cross beside any party but Labour.

"My _son_ " I correct, " _Our_ son."


	107. Goodbye to the Commons.

**20th March, 2015.**

**House of Commons, London.**

_I had a new haircut_. My hair had never been particularly long, only ever reaching as far as my collarbones. Now it was cropped rather nicely to shoulder-length. As curly as ever, but neater. "You look very pretty" Michael Heseltine had complimented as I walked through the lobby. I hoped the Tory MPs who whispered opposite me where making similar remarks.

 _Iraq_. That was the topic of the day. Every one in the House knew of the chaos that loomed ahead. They would have weeks to debate taxes and foreign policy and environmental concerns. For now we could discuss something surprisingly peaceful.

Iraq had always sent violent shivers rippling up my spine. It had marred so much of that I did in government. It wasn't the legacy I had been keen on leaving, but there was no point trying to escape it. I had helped to orchestrate the invasion of Iraq, _yes_ , and there was no way for me to change that.

"Mr Speaker, this is likely to be my last speech in the House" I say, confident that I had the time to deviate slightly, "It's been quite the journey". ' _Major is going to bloody love you'_ George had sighed on my very first day. He had indeed _loved_ me.

"I've made many a mistake, undoubtedly, and there were times when I could have been a little less evasive at the dispatch box" I say, looking to the old box that I had stood at so many times over the years, "But I've been proud to speak here, in such learned company, all in the eye of a brilliant Speaker". Bercow smiles and bows his head respectfully.

"One of the speeches I remember particularly well was that I made in 2003, government dossier in hand, detailing my plan for the invasion" I recall, no longer shivering, "I know I could have done better. There was so much I could have changed."

"The Prime Minister intends to call an election in ten days time" I go on, "In a few weeks time, these benches will be packed full of a new generation of public servants. The only wisdom I feel qualified to pass onto them is this."

" _It's alright to make mistakes_. God knows I've made many these past twenty-three years, both politically and personally" I round up, keen to finish my remarks before my emotions got the better of me, "To friend and foe, I say _don't detract from them_. Admit to them. Accept them, and vow to do better. Do better than I did in Iraq". _Iraq. The Campions. Eva Smith. William Lewis. George_. I had indeed made many mistakes. Once I had been ashamed of them. Now, I embraced them.

"I was twenty years old when I set foot in this chamber for the first time. I was far too confident, and far too eager to please". I go off topic somewhat, but my audience don't seem to mind. So many of my colleagues were leaving this chamber with me. Jack, Tessa Jowell, David Blunkett, Ming Campbell, _Gordon_. Gordon sits on the seat beside me now. On the benches opposite I can see Charles.

"I like to think I'm leaving you now a much more sensible, _calmer_ person. It's a shame about the grey hairs, of course, but I'm better than I was" I conclude, "I have no great quote to leave you with, so I'll say only this. Whether your greatest debates be centred around Iraq, or the Middle East, or the economy, or equal rights, I hope you leave this chamber a better person too". There had been more _grandiose_ speeches, but I considered mine authentic.

Admist the usual 'hear-hear'ing of those around me comes a loud, heavy clap. From across the chamber, Charles stands in applause, old eyes brimming with tears that I felt were entirely undeserved.

The Conservative beside him gets to his feet and joins in. Nick Clegg momentarily breaks his air of misery and applauds with his colleagues. A lump forms in my throat as more and more peers rise and clap. "Well done, Liz" Gordon nods, clapping harder than any of them. I glance across to Bercow and wait for him to intervene. Yet I am met only with a smile. A kind, _genuine_ smile.

The Conservatives had glared at me when I first entered the Commons. Some even gestured rudely whenever I stood up to speak. Many looked _sad_ now. I felt quite proud, in an odd sort of way.

An unexpected crowd awaits me as I walk through, with Gordon and Charles in tow, into the lobby. I'd not advertised today's speech as my very last, but with only ten days left before the dissolution, a number of my colleagues had made the assumption.

An unlikely ally steps forward first. "Well done, Liz" Ed Balls says, offering his hand. I shake it and smile. Perhaps he wasn't so irritating after all.

John McDonnell is the next MP to approach me, every bit as improbable as Balls. He bears a bouquet of flowers, and offers them to me with a warm smile. "We've had our differences, haven't we?" he chuckles, "But it's been a pleasure to sit alongside you". I look at the flowers fondly and reach over to give him an appreciative kiss on the cheek.

Diane Abott, Paddy Ashdown, _Jacob Rees-Mogg_. They all set aside their differences and greet me as a friend. There were several moments upon which I thought I might cry.

Silence falls on my well-wishers. The crowd parts down the middle, and there stands a somewhat goofy-looking man with a gangly frame and dark eyes. " _Ed_ " I say quietly, taken aback by his presence. Gingerly, he steps forward.

"I saw your speech, from my office I mean" my old friend mutters, "I thought it very impressive". I gently pass the bouquet to Charles and close the awkward distance between Ed and I.

"We got it wrong, didn't we?" I say, laughing in spite of the situation, "I'm ever so sorry, Ed". I didn't say what exactly I was sorry for. My treatement of him, perhaps? The way in which I'd let our friendship slide into disrepair? The petulant way in which I'd abandoned him?

"I'm sorry too" Ed says, voice trembling only slightly, "More than you can imagine". As he stands before me, eyes wide, I see not Ed the leader, but Ed the young special adviser. On my doorstep, in the snow, scarf wrapped tightly around his face, round spectacles perched nicely on the bridge of his nose. That was how I would always remember him. That was my Ed.

"Are there any journalists lurking?" I ask, glancing about the lobby inquisitively. Ed frowns down at me.

"Probably" he replies, "Why?"

"So they can see this" I grin. And with that, I reach forward and hug Ed tightly. Months of curt nods and polite smiles had passed. Now I could embrace him as I always had done. He was my friend, one of the best I'd ever had. Did I support everything he said? Absolutely not. Could he convince me to rejoin my party? Absolutely not. Did I love him all the same? _Absolutely_.

"Well, yes" Ed clears his throat as we both stand back again, "I think I'm expected some where now". Balls scrunches his face up at him.

"Join us for one drink, Ed, come on" he urges. The others around us goad him on. Ed looks to them each in turn, before looking back down to me again with a smile. "Alright then" he concedes, " _Fuck_ it". An odd cheer rises up.

A strange assembly of all colours, we make our way to the bar. There were enough of us to fill the terrace. I wondered whether we could embark on a team effort to find the phone I had thrown into the Thames so long ago.

"Room for another?" comes a voice, just as we reach the archway of the bar. The grumbles I hear from my Labour colleagues amuse me. I separate myself momentarily from their ranks and approach George. "Shouldn't you be fixing our economy?" I ask, with feigned coolness.

"I just came by to ask if you really are _going_ " George replies, "All drinks on me if we're finally seeing the back of you". I struggle to keep my expression stern.

"Have a party planned to do you?" I ask curtly. George casts his eyes towards my allies and shrugs.

"I've a great many things planned" he hints, much to their confusion. Their confusion deepens when he seizes my hand in his own and leads the way to the bar. Gordon mutters to himself, whilst Charles simply smirks.

"How long has that been going on, do you reckon?" Diane whispers behind me.

"I don't know" I hear McDonnell reply, "But I think they look rather sweet together."

* * *

"I like your haircut". Jonathan is all smiles when he greets me. I'd agree to meet him at one of his usual haunts on the other side of the Thames. My office had been packed up for the final time, and my things sent onwards to my apartment. I'd sort it all later. I had something else to settle first.

"You look ten years younger" Jonathan compliments, stirring his coffee with a slightly bent spoon. I was in too good a mood to resist flattery. Leaving the Commons had been difficult, yes, but not in any way harsh.

"It does appear I'm free" I sigh contentedly, sipping at my tea.

"What new adventures await you now, I wonder" Jonathan considers, scratching his stubbly chin thoughtfully, " _Queen_?". Her Majesty had been one of the few members of the political establishment who hadn't joined in my improvised celebration at the Commons bar. More and more MPs had taken advantage of George's earlier promise to foot the bill. "He can afford it" I'd cheekily told Ken Clarke as he ordered his third brandy.

"I've had so many these past twenty years, I'm not sure I want many more" I say, "I never thought to keep a diary. Most of my _adventures_ are recorded in my head now". Jonathan looks up hoefully. I'd take advantage of my brighter mood and give Jonathan the chance he had been hoping for.

"Perhaps it is time I shared them with people. I'm not pretentious enough to write it all myself, you understand" I sigh mockingly, "If only I knew someone who was willing to listen to my stories and write them down?". Jonathan scrambles about for the notebook in his coat pocket and withdraws a pen.

"I'm still mulling over titles" he tells me, excitement evident on his face, "I did a bit more digging about this bizarre _Lady in Red_ label". I set my tea cup down on its saucer and await his explanation with interest. It was a nickname that I vaguely remember reading for the first time in the late 90s.

"It was the Mail who came up with it originally" Jonathan speaks, giving me with very little surprise, "You were fond of red dresses, it seems. And they thought you were rather sexy". I cough into my remaining tea.

" _Sexy_ " I repeat, fighting back a grin.

"The Mail is tripe, as we know, so I turned to Google" Jonathan goes on, consulting his notebook as he does so, "And apparently _red_ symbolises fire. You're pretty fiery". Again, I splutter.

"That's pathetic" I titter. Jonathan quietly accepts that and flicks through his remaining pages of notes. He had clearly been preparing for this book of his. Seeing just how hard he'd worked on the idea made me feel rather guilty for resisting it for so long.

"Red is also the colour of _love_ " Jonathan tries, "You're quite loving, when you want to be". I make my opinions on that definition known with only a stare. He sets his notebook down and takes a long sip of his coffee.

"The Iron Lady of the Left?". He resorts to the title he had dismissed only months ago. I'd feel unbearably pompous contributing to a book that gave me such an emboldened, and no doubt _underserved_ , name. The more Jonathan thought on it, however, the more he seemed to like it.

 _And so I give in_.

* * *

"So what are these _great many things_ you have planned?". I wrap myself in my dressing gown to fend off the coolness of the apartment. George still fumbles about with his shirt when he joins me in the kitchen.

"Still not satisfied, then?" he smirks to himself. I throw a tea bag at him.

"Seriously though" I say, flicking the switch of the kettle, "Is it a holiday? Has the government arranged my marriage to Prince Harry?". George helpfully passes two cleans mugs to me.

"He's a bit young for you, isn't he?" he asks. I jerk my head. I'd met both princes on a number of occasions, and found them both to be very pleasant company.

"He's ginger" I reply, waiting for the kettle to finish its ever vital work, "We red-heads must stick together". Comfortable silence descends as I carefully poor the boiling water into the prepared mugs.

"Actually" George says, most sedately, passing the milk to me, "I wondered if _I_ might marry you". I take the milk from him, momentarily oblivious, and add it to our tea. It's only as I turn to hand the carton back to him that I react.

"Pardon?" I demand. George sets the carton aside and furrows his brows.

"Did you not hear me?" he asks. I blink hard.

"Yes, I did hear you" I say, now entirely distracted from the incredibly important task of making tea. George senses my newfound difficulties and steps in to help.

"Then what's the problem?" he smiles, perfectly calm as he dumps the used tea bags into the bin in the corner. I follow him as he takes the mugs into the living room and sets them down on the coffee table.

" _Sorry_ " I gabble, rubbing my increasingly sore temple with a gentle hand, "Was that a proposal?". George perches himself down on the couch and reaches forward for the television remote.

"I'm not doing all that poxy _getting on one knee_ lark" he says, "Have you got Downton Abbey on here?". I tell him that I did, and instruct him on how to reach the list of programmes that I'd recently recorded. Then I'm yanked back into reality. _Poxy getting on one knee lark_. It was so typically George. _This is happening_ , my inner voice tells me, _this is very much happening_.

"I don't understand" I babble. George takes a sip of coffee and looks across to me with a characteristically boyish grin. "I thought you were intelligent" he remarks. I would have slapped him if I were close enough, but I remain here, glued to the floor in shock.

"I'm asking you to marry me, Liz" he repeats, "It really isn't that difficult". I hated how speechless I was. I hadn't thought of myself as such a sentimental person.

" _Oh_ " I say. George waits patiently for a more elaborate answer.

"You're supposed to say _yes_ " he informs me. I'd taken leave of my senses almost entirely. I shuffle over and join him on the couch. I'd wake up a bit once I'd had a sip of tea.

"Alright then" I reply, nestling down into the soft pillows of the couch as the opening titles of Downton began to roll, " _Yes_."

"Will you _really_ marry me?" George asks twenty minutes later. My mug was empty by then, and the episode we watched had reached its pivotal moment.

"Yes" I tell him, "Now do be quiet. You're interrupting the best bit."


	108. Vote Nelson.

**31st March, 2015.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

Only a day had gone by, but already I was aware that we were well and truly in election season. All over the county, voters had started displaying the poster of their choice in their windows. I was surprised by the lack of Vote Labour signs. Several streets in Henley were awash with red posters when I'd been the MP for the area.

"Your rosette is lopsided" I tell my son. I walk over to him and fix it for him, repinning it to the jacket he wears at a better angle and pushing its blue tiers from the words printing upon it. I could sympathise with my own mother now. Alex was twenty years old, and on the edge of elected office.

"Have you spoken to Uncle Nevin lately?" he asks politely. I snort quietly.

"He sends me regular updates" I answer, "Regular in that he sends a message to me every thirty minutes or so to ask if something the baby is doing is _normal_ ". Nevin had not been the most attentive father after the birth of his first child, and his new wife had never been a parent before. They were embarking on quite the learning curve.

"I can't believe they called the poor thing _Douglas_ " Alex laughs. Douglas was but a newborn, and so his thoughts on the matter were unobtainable.

"The last Douglas Nelson was a brilliant man" I reason, fondly thinking of my father, and how thrilled he would have been to have a boy of his name in the family again.

"Now, you will be careful, won't you?" I caution as my son ties his shoelaces at the bottom of the staircase. He didn't roll his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to.

"I've done this numerous times now, Mother" he says, "I think I can canvass quite efficiently by now". Canvassing was always rather strange when it was your own face you saw emblazoned and edited on the campaign literature. People, perhaps rightly, felt more obliged to speak to you, which could end either brilliantly or badly.

"Good luck" I bid him as he opens the front door. Alex thanks me, and just before he leaves, he glances upwards. The landing was empty. No one rushed down to offer their hand for the day, to his obvious disappointment. "Goodbye, Mother" Alex smiles. And then he is off, walking hurriedly down the drive towards the car that awaits him at the gate.

Isaac had not been entirely helpful since the campaign began. He was proud of Alex, yes, but not proud enough to stand by him on the campaign trail. It was rather hypocritical of me, I thought, given that I had the time and energy to get involved too.

Today, at least, I had an excuse. Alex had left at just the right moment, for a guest was on his way. It was no one I didn't want Alex to see, but I thought it better if I knew I had the house to myself. Isaac rarely got up before one in the afternoon, so I was sure our conversation wouldn't be overheard.

Sure enough, there comes a knock on the door. "Good morning, Ms Nelson" Liam of The Telegraph greets, eyes still as wandering and curious as they had been when first I met him, when he was nothing but a slightly _creepy_ hack.

"Do come in" I invite, standing aside. And as he hangs his coat up, and looks about the hallway, eyeing up every painting and ornament with interest, I'm strangely reassured that despite his obvious intrigue, none of that which I said to him would confront me days later in the newspaper. Did he still retain his air of _creepiness_? Yes. But did he mean to do me harm, as William Lewis had done? _No_. 

* * *

"Do anything interesting this morning?". A tea cup and saucer are rested gently in my outstretched palm. A weary-looking Nevin collapses into his armchair and rubs his eyes. I could faint hear the cries of a two month old somewhere else in the house. I could safely assume that the baby was well tended to by Claire.

"Not particularly" I tell my brother. That was a half-truth. I hadn't invited Liam to tea for idle chatter. Rather like my meeting with Angela Campion at Maudsley, and the other spontaneous visits besides, I had questions.

_"Why did you help me?" I had asked, keen to know why exactly he had betrayed his master in favour of me._

_"The night of your brother's election, at the count in the town hall" Liam had told me, "I'd cautioned you about the letters that Eva Smith wrote. I tried to frighten you, but I didn't work. I suppose I realised who it was I was up against."_

Nevin drifts in and out of sleep before my very eyes. He was on the sunny side of forty now, not the ideal age to be dealing with a screaming baby. I knew, beneath the fatigue, he was happy all the same.

"Won't be getting out on the campaign trail, then?" I ask. Nevin starts in his chair and sits up sharply.

"Oh, _shit_ " he whispers, "Is there an election?". I would have rolled my eyes had I not felt so sorry for him. I sympathised entirely. Babies were a pain. Alex had been surprisingly quiet in his early months, quite the opposite to Emily. I had not been comforted by my mother's anecdotes about how I had been twice as loud as a baby.

"We're having a _general election_ , Nevin" I explain clearly, "David dissolved parliament yesterday". I give my brother a few moments to rejoin reality. He leaps to his feet suddenly and dashes into the hallway.

"What are you doing?" I cry, watching bewildered as he struggles to put on a pair of shoes that actually belong to Claire. "They'll be campaigning in town" my brother answers, "I need to go". I do roll my eyes now, and approach him to remove the coat he also struggles to put on.

"Sit down, you silly man" I sigh, leading him back into the sitting room, "Finish your tea". Nevin does as instructed. He's considerably calmer when he sets his tea cup down again.

"I think I need sleep" he assesses. Liam had looked just as tired, though he had no noisy baby to contend with. Other pressures had been placed upon him.

_"You didn't have to accept the editorship" I had remarked. Liam had rubbed his blood shot eyes and sighed. He had questions too._

_"Why did you put my name forward?" he had asked, "Fred Barclay told me what you said". Barclay hadn't exactly been sworn to secrecy. I would have preferred it, however, if my suggestion of Liam's name had remained anonymous._

_"I thought it was time The Telegraph had an editor who didn't hate me" I had said, "I now know that when I buy a copy, I'm not funding another of Lewis' smear campaigns."_

Again, Nevin nods off. I don't wake him this time, instead setting my tea cup down and leaving him to rest in the sitting room alone. The cries I heard above me are replaced by gentle gurgling. Babies spoke a very peculiar language. Most still managed to be more coherent than many of the men I'd heard speak in the House of Commons.

Quietly, I tiptoe upstairs, towards the gurgling. I peer into the nearest door on the landing. Claire holds the child close to her chest, humming quietly. I wasn't sure I wanted to disturb them too.

"Oh, hello" says Claire, spotting me. I stop lurking and step into the room. The baby is passed to be almost as soon as I do. I got the impression Claire needed a break.

"He's got lovely eyes" I smile, cradling my little nephew close. Claire rests herself on a nearby chair.

"I saw Isaac on television earlier" she tells me wearily. I frown. As far as I knew, Isaac had stayed at home. Alex made no mention of a visit from the BBC.

"He was with Nick Clegg" Claire informs me, totally oblivious of the implications of her words, "Some big Lib Dem push in town". I feign a smile, but beneath it I feel my mood darken. Not joining Alex on the campaign trail was one thing. Actively aiding another was something else entirely.

* * *

It was perhaps a daring, and, given the breeze running through the town,  _stupid_ , decision, but, warmed by the tea I'd enjoyed all afternoon, I made my way down the high street towards a stall marked out by bunches of blue balloons. The local Tories were not my primary target, however, for it was the hints of Lib Dem yellow that I most curiously looked out for.

The local Labour Party were restricted to the inner pages of the local newspaper. Their campaign hadn't kicked off as they had intended, marginalised by the steadily increasing forces of their nearest rivals. I pitied them, really. They'd always been competent campaigners in my day.

"I'm looking for Nick Clegg" I tell my son as I approach him, "He's really very animated for a man without a spine". Alex attempts to hand me a leaflet of his. My dining table was covered in stacks of the things.

"I did hear he was lurking about" he says, dark eyes surveying the street for any sign of his liberal rivals, "He might simply be in search of some fresh air before the big debate on Thursday". The main leaders' debate had been scheduled to take place early in the campaign, perhaps to capture the interest of voters before they grew too bored. Televised debates had been something of a novelty five years ago, though they were rather fun to watch from the comfort of a spin room.

"You can come along, if you'd like" I offer, intending to go along myself, "To accustom you to these things before you start your climb up the greasy pole."

"Alas, I'm due to attend a debate of a slightly smaller scale" Alex replies politely, "The union thought they'd pull together speakers from all major parties down at uni. I can't imagine I'll be very popular amongst the Marxists, but it's worth attending". Oxford had been an eclectic mix of political opinion during my time there. It was not swarmed with Tories, as some on the left might presume, nor was it overloaded with left-wing radicals, as universities often seemed to be. Alex was a young man of sensible positions. I doubted he had _many_ enemies among his fellow students.

"Will Isaac be taking up the liberal banner at this debate?" I ask, glancing about my surroundings once more, wondering both eagerly and apprehensively whether I would catch sight of him by Clegg's side for myself.

"I suspect he's sitting this election out" Alex says, making me shiver somewhat. _Had Claire, in her fatigue, mistaken another for Isaac? What if he really had decided to back my son's rivals? Could I blame him for putting principle before feeling?_

"Yes, well" I stutter, disappointed in my own inability to maintain a calm exterior, "Make sure you don't stay out here for too long. It's frightfully cold". I give him a kiss on the cheek, solely with the intention of embarrassing him of course, before setting off along the street again. I feel a small pain in my chest as I stride but I ignore it.

I take a different route. Henley-On-Thames was not a large place, but what filled with obscure shops and businesses if one took the time to look. Along the darker and wetter streets I padded, hands tucked deeply into my pockets and head bowed slightly. I wasn't hiding, merely keen on making my slow journey back to my car without an intervention.

To my right, through a gap between two nearby shops onto the carpark of a supermarket that I wasn't familiar with, I hear the familiar tones of a familiar man. Curiosity overrides me once more.

"And what is Elizabeth Nelson, but a career politician?" Clegg states, no longer as Churchillian as he was five years ago, "The rich, Oxbridge daughter of an even richer businessman. What does she know of the struggles of the ordinary people here in Henley?". The supporters around him nod and clap, but Clegg's words draw only dismissive glances from the members of the public who walk them.

"And now she endorses her own son" Clegg addresses his posse, "Another privately-educated Tory who has never lifted a finger in his life. Imagine the reaction from the honest, working-class people of this constituency to being represented by someone so painfully elitist". Again, his people clap.

"I'd imagine it's rather like being represented by the privately-educated son of a businessman from Buckinghamshire" I call out, stepping forward without a care for the glares I receive from the liberals around me. Clegg's cheeks flush a violent shade of red.

"I wasn't elected on the basis of nepotism" he fights back. Members of the public neglect him no longer. Some start to linger, fascinated by the spectacle of two old Deputy Prime Ministers sparring in broad daylight.

"Have you ever even bothered to introduce yourself to my son?" I question. Clegg stands down from his perch and steps closer to me. His supporters stick by his side most attentively. I find no trace of Isaac among them.

"You talk as though you know him" I say, hoping my disapproval was evident on my face, "He has been incredibly lucky in life. Few are as fortunate as he is."

"He doesn't know what it is to struggle with bills, or to worry that he'll go hungry" I go on, keen on making my point before I'm apprehended by one of his disciples, "But he does have heart. You misunderstand him entirely if you think that he doesn't care for every single person in this constituency". Clegg's skin only darkens.

"Still, I look forward to seeing you use these substantive arguments of yours in Thursday's debate". With that, I nod and turn back into the street, leaving the liberals to continue their rants on the car park.

I don't mind when voters approach me after that. It was reassuring to hear so many of them speak of me favourably, and encouraging to hear their growing confidence in Alex. Yet, for all the conversations that I have as I make my slow climb back to the car, I feel somewhat distracted.

Clegg's barbs meant nothing to me. It was a pathetic way to campaign, to prey on only class when _real_ issues prevailed. What did trouble me was the idea of Isaac standing proudly as such things were said. Did he honestly agree that Alex and I were nothing but elitist snobs? I didn't want to suspect such things of him. He was a nice boy who had made my Alex very happy indeed. If he did insist on listening to Clegg's dribble, I sincerely hoped he challenged it.

As I find myself walking back in the direction of the Tories' stall, chest still hurting, I reflect on my day. I'd made peace with my mysterious Liam of The Telegraph, but discovered a hideous nest in the form of Isaac's political inclinations. Would he really be so bold and unkind as to slight Alex in this way? Freedom of opinion was fine, but I couldn't help but feel slightly betrayed.

And as I approach those blue balloons once more, and observe a dark-haired boy bickering with an equally young man with auburn curls in the street, I see that I am not the only one.


	109. A Clash of Colour.

**2nd April, 2015.**

**Salford Quays, Greater Manchester.**

The hotel rooms of Manchester were not as grand as those in Copenhagen, but this particular one would do for the day. Not standing in the election gave me the freedom to roam where I liked. I didn't have to hop about the country as I had done so often in the past. I had come to Manchester to observe, and comment on, the leaders' debate because I _wanted_ to.

"So what exactly is going on between them?". A voice from the bathroom distracts me from my copy of The Telegraph. I'd been drawn to a particularly pleasing piece about the good work of my brother.

I take a deep breath. "They've had something of a _spat_ " I answer, "Alex, quite rightly, is rather annoyed about Isaac jumping over to join Clegg". George emerges from the bathroom with a clean tie hanging about his neck. It was blue, naturally.

"Isaac is a Lib Dem, isn't he?" he asks, "What's the problem?". I cast aside the newspaper and frown at him from across the room.

"He's actively campaigning against his own boyfriend" I point out, really rather miffed at the situation myself, "I'd say that's an issue". George perches himself down on the edge of the bed as he attempts to fasten his tie to a suitable degree.

"We live in a democracy" he counters, fiddling with the material with little success. I roll my eyes and bat his hands away. "You've gone soft" I mutter, fixing his tie with little effort. I linger for another moment or two in case George decides to mess about with it, as he so often seemed to do.

" _Modern, compassionate Conservatives_ " he recites, half mocking, half proud. I slide my copy of The Telegraph into my bag. It would give me something to do whenever Farage started speaking.

"Not planning a leadership bid, are you?" I ask jokingly, approaching the mirror in the corner of the room to check all was in order. I'd opted for as neutral an outfit as I could. A white blouse and black skirt seemed appropriate. Any hint of colour would no doubt be interpreted as an endorsement of one party or another by the press.

George is quiet for a little too long. I turn on my heel and glance back at him just to check that he hadn't fallen asleep. He wears an odd expression now. The glint in his eye was familiar, but there is something about his face now that I don't recognise. _Ambition_. I had never been privy to his thoughts during his ascent to the shadow cabinet. He was a powerful man, and an increasingly trusted one too. I'd never really thought about what might await him outside of No. 11.

"An odd thing to reveal just before your leader presents himself to the nation" i remark, looking back to my reflection in the mirror. I readjust my skirt by an inch or two. I felt I was getting _fatter_ around the middle. I still looked very slight, but I'd noticed one or two additional pounds creeping onto my scales these past few weeks.

"You know I support David" George says, observing me from afar, "But he has ruled out a third term. I'm just _considering my options_ ". I was unaware of how popular, or unpopular as the case may be, George was within the ranks of the Tory Party. Whatever personal differences he had with his colleagues, most seemed welcoming of his handling of the finances, and the more complicated business of party strategy. The public hadn't warmed to him, but they had at least some trust in him. _Would they back him at the polls? Would I end up in 10 Downing Street after all?_

"Of course, if you objected to the idea" George adds, getting to his feet and brushing the creases from his trousers, "I wouldn't think of it again". I push my admittedly trivial weight concerns to one side and offer George my full attention. I could test him just as I'd tested. Could I see him on the steps of No. 10?

In this particular case, I sincerely thought I _could_. Though, waltzing from from chancellorship to premiership would not be as fluid as George appeared to think. I could not see him leaping seamlessly from one to another.

"Just because I've peaked" I say, slightly cheekily, "It doesn't mean _you_ shouldn't  aim a little higher". I was at my best five years ago. I'd only presumed that George would be content to stay at the Treasury. I began to realise that I'd never really talked about it with him. It was rather selfish, really.

"Would you vote for me?" George asks slyly.

"As opposed to whom?" I question. Lord knew who the challengers of the opposition might be come the next election. That was, of course, presuming that George's side wouldn't find themselves in opposition instead come May.

" _Diane Abbott_ " George says with a grin, "Or another of the far-left troupe you don't like. What's the name of that chap with the beard?". I slip into my heels and tuck my phone away safely into my bag. Night would be upon us soon, and it would be time for the debate to begin. I'd be sent to spin room with supporters like George. I had the freedom of being _independent_.

"You mean _Jeremy Corbyn_ " I snort, "He's actually a rather nice fellow. I've a lot of time for him". George raises his eyebrows in surprise. He tries to straighten his tie as he makes for the door. I bat his hands away again and sigh as the knot once again comes undone.

"You've changed your tune" he says, amused, "I thought you loathed that lot". Memories of John McDonnell denouncing me as a 'witch' before the PLP were still very much fresh.

"I've mellowed in my old age. Corbyn is lovely" I insist, fastening George's tie in such a way as to make it resistant to his _fiddling_ , "Not that he'll ever be leader of the party, of course."

* * *

The floor was buzzing with technicians. The first televised leaders' debate had taken place five years ago. Televised debates of any kind were quite the novelty here in Britain, at least back then. I could vaguely recall the debates between Reagan and Carter, and Clinton and Bush in the US. Before 2010, British political debate had mostly been confined to Question Time.

I felt something of an old woman as the strikingly young aides of my old parliamentary colleagues dash about the spin room, frantically relaying information to their masters before the great debate began. _BBC, ITV, Sky._ They were all here, eagerly sticking their microphones in the faces of any one who had even the faintest hint of authority about them.

"I'm confident that David Cameron will come out on top tonight" Michael Gove tells a journalist to my right.

"Ed Miliband will be the surprise of the night" Alastair Campbell says to my left.

It isn't long before I'm approached for a thought or two. "I don't know who will win" I answer my questioners honestly, "It hasn't started yet". Only three leaders had taken part in the debates of the last general election. Now _seven_ took their places on the stage. It was refreshing, of course, to see such diversity on the polical stage, but most were still primarily concerned with blue and red.

"Farage might surprise us" I consider before the cameras, "And Sturgeon is quite a fiery opponent. It might be worth focusing a little more on them". Labour and the Tories would bicker until they were purple in the face. I'd spent twenty years watching the two sides argue like children. The likes of the Greens and Plaid Cymru inspired greater interest in me.

"Both Ed and David are capable speakers" I sigh, slinking away to the corners of the room to avoid the pursuit of the press, "I look forward to seeing them both in action". They were now free from the constraints of the Commons. _The gloves were off_ , so to speak.

"I can't imagine there'll be much of a bust up" Paddy Ashdown sighs, watching the screens before us that show an empty stage. The debate would start soon. Somewhere in the building, the political leaders of the country were making final preparations.

"I'm sure you're grateful" I smile cheekily, "Clegg already takes a regular beating". I'd asked Charles to come along, but he had politely declined. I worried for him these days. As my mood brightened, his gradually darkened.

"You really enjoy liberal-bashing, don't you?" Ashdown turns to me, eyes narrowed. I grin despite myself, a poor diplomat in this particular moment. "You're such an easy target" I tease.

 _Economy. Immigration. Health_. The Sun journalist sat in front of me hastily types down the most prominent topics of the election so far and emboldens them. The economy was likely to prove the most contentious. There was much to improve upon, though I wasn't convinced Balls had the right solutions.

"So you'll be voting for the blue army this time around, will you?" Fraser smirks, tearing himself away from the less than interesting conversation about taxation he had been having with Robert Peston.

"I'm voting for my son" I correct, head held high. Fraser slips his hands into his pockets and observes his fellow journalists whisper amongst themselves with a bored expression. "It's more than his darling Isaac appears to be doing" he murmurs. Isaac had fallen in favour in Nelson ranks these past couple of days. News of his apparent _betrayal_ had already reached the rest of the clan.

"I think Alex is _disappointed_ more than anything" I sigh, saddened by the memory of the light fading my son's eyes, "It's not a nice feeling, knowing that those you love most are against you". _My family had always voted Conservative when I was an MP_.

"How did you feel when George voted Tory in '92?" Fraser asks. I can't help but grin. I wouldn't find George in the spin room just yet. He was hiding away with David, making the most of what little time remained before the big fight that lay ahead.

"You mustn't tell any one that I've told you this" I tell my brother quietly, conscious of the number of hacks around me, "But I'm not entirely convinced he _did_ vote Tory that year". I was most tempted to mention that in my next meeting with Jonathan. If his book was to be one of revelations, I'd rather it included some interesting ones about George.

"You're fucking with me" Fraser blinks, "There is no way that he voted for Kinnock". George had been just about to join the Tories' research department at the time of my election. We'd had many a debate during the campaign, but on polling day itself he had smiled. He was no resident of Henley, but I knew exactly how he'd have voted if he had been. Cheekily, I had asked him how he had voted. The smile had remained, coupled nicely with a flash of mischief in his dark, dark eyes.

" _Discretion_ , brother mine" I advise warily, eyeing up the sharks encircling me, "Let's not embarrass the poor chap now". I had not been to Downing Street since the night of the referendum in Scotland, but I had since that time been privy to relationship between George and my cousin. I'd been witness to their many agreements, and occasion arguments, and come to realise that, for all of David's grandeur as a brand manager, it was George who developed the strategy behind the operation. David's approach in this debate would be shaped almost entirely by George. If my cousin was to flop this night, fingers would soon point to his chancellor.

"Lynton Crosby is about somewhere" Fraser muses, looking about the room for any sign of the so-called _Wizard of Oz_ , "I'd very much like to speak with him". Crosby's part in the operation was almost as important as George's. _Spin had not died just yet._

"Attending any parties after the debate?" I ask casually. Fraser strokes his chin thoughtfully. I knew how hacks loved a drink.

"Unfortunately, I'll have quite a few interviews to do" my brother laments, "Though the Telegraph lot did offer me dinner earlier. _Lord_ knows why". He gives me a knowing look. The Telegraph had certainty come to view the Nelsons much more favourably now. It was no doubt morally dubious of me to orchestrate the appointment of someone who _liked_ me to the editorship of one of the nation's biggest newspapers, but I could live with that.

"What about you?" Fraser asks politely. I doubted a two-hour debate would put in the mood for a party.

"I think I'll just head off back to the hotel when it's over" I tell him, "An early night might be in order". I rub my chest briefly. The aching came and went. I suspected travelling up to Manchester via train had not been particularly kind on my heart.

"You're alright, aren't you?" Fraser questions, concern apparent in his eyes now, "Debate be damned, if you at all feel-". I hold up a hand to stop him before he suggests dragging me back to hospital.

"I'm fine" I say firmly, "Though I might get a bit of fresh air before the chaos begins". Fraser makes a move to follow me, but politely I ask that he stay put. I knew of several our doors in the studio. I'd used one to escape for a cigarette back in 2010.

On this particular occasion, however, I find I'm not the only one who thinks it wise to hide away for a few moments of peace. At the back of the studio, less than glamorous beside some bins, I find Nick Clegg.

"Have you got a cigarette?" he asks me dismally.

"I gave them up months ago" I inform him, much to his disappointment. He stands hunched, navy blue suit creasing at the elbows, the yellow tie around his neck notably _limp_. It was easy to make jokes about him when he was out of ear-shot. I surprise myself when I find I start to _pity_ him.

"Not looking forward to the debate, then?" I attempt, hoping my smile came across as friendly rather than smug. My attitude towards him on previous occasions makes it easier for Clegg to misinterpret me, of course.

"Don't mock me" he grumbles, casting his eyes towards the damp ground below. I really did begin to feel guilty now.

"It wasn't my intention" I say, "I'm sorry if I've-"

"You've never liked me" Clegg interjects, "I can't say I've ever been particularly fond of you". It wasn't exactly an invitation of friendship. I had only myself to blame for that.

"Yet, _annoyingly_ , you were right" Clegg mutters, fingers scratching at his trousers as he itched for a cigarette, "The public think very little of my _poor bleeding heart_ ". I fall silent as I think of a helpful response.

"Actually, you've defied my expectations" I manage, "I didn't think you'd hold on for five years. I wouldn't have been able to". The coalition had made it to the end of the parliament. Yes, both sides had been out of things they agreed on for a good twelve months, but a coalition they had remained.

"I'll never stop making jokes about your lot, Clegg" I say, offering the man one more smile, defying the growing sensations in my chest, "But I do have _some_ respect for you". It wasn't a glowing endorsement, but it took some of the sadness from Clegg's eyes.

He retreats inside before I do, a flash of panic in his eyes as he went. I check my watch. _7:57_. _Only three minutes to go_. The pressure in my chest subsides, my lungs no doubt grateful for the fresh air. I had nicorette spray in my bag, if I needed it. Smoking wasn't as appealing as it once had been.

The spin room was filled with quiet chatter. Cameras panned onto each leader, all them smiling slightly awkwardly as they're introduced. Ed relaxes when the opening statements begin. He forces a small smile onto his lips, and stands casually behind his lectern. It looked quite unnatural on him, this newfound air of confidence, but I was glad to see him try.

"Has Clegg been crying?" Sadiq Khan whispers from beside me. I laugh only lightly. His disheartened expression really had made me feel _guilty_. I didn't envy Clegg's position in the slightest. He was looked upon kindly by neither the country nor his own party.

"Oh dear" I say, looking on as Clegg begins the debate, naturally opening on the economy, by tearing into Cameron, "I hope they have the divorce papers ready". Ashdown watches like a proud father, but soon his expression sours.

"I saw in your column that you call the Lib Dems on the front bench _poodles_ " he reminds me, distaste clear, "A rather unfair description from a lapdog of Tony Blair". I can't but titter. I'd feel guilty about my unfairness towards Clegg. I was unapologetic about the bullets I fired over his trench.

"I suppose they haven't been entirely subservient" I concede, wanting our conversation to remain civil, "Stopping the Tories from arguing about Europe was wise. And they managed to put a stop to their inheritance tax plans". Paddy arches a wispy eyebrow.

"Ah, _Europe_ and _inheritance tax_ " he breathes, "Two things Elizabeth Nelson does not like". My smile broadens.

"So it isn't just my son that you're keen to misrepresent?" I nod. I'd had too many pleasant holidays on the continent to _dislike_ Europe.

"You didn't pay tax on the fortune you inherited from your father, did you?" Ashdown presses. He was beginning to distract me from the _real_ debate. I had only myself to blame for his hostility. Elections always tended to stir up tensions.

"No, I didn't" I reply, "Probably because my father tucked it away in a trust without my knowledge". I'd received some backlash for that at the time. It was one of the few damaging stories about me that The Telegraph had actually ended up publishing.

"Quite a bit of it has been spent on educating my children, actually" I add, mild frustration thinly veiled. Paddy was not the only who who seemed to associate wealth with frivolity and excess. A number of those I'd met over the years presumed me to be a snob, blowing my money on flash cars and material possessions I didn't really need. In reality, I only really overspent on _clothes_.

"Not bickering, are you?". George approaches us from behind, hands resting casually in his pockets as he keeps his eye keenly focused on the large screen before us.

" _Shush_ " a nearby Guardian hack hisses, fingers hurriedly dancing across the keyboard of their laptop. George does as he's told and instead watches in silence. Still, the leaders discussed the economy. David had, naturally, pulled out his favourite prop: the note Liam Byrne had left in the Treasury shortly before we had been wrenched from office, rather naughtily stating that we had run out of money.

"Before 2008, David, you said the banks were over-regulated" Ed attacks, "So I'm really not going to take any lectures from you about the global financial crisis". The audience had been told not to clap, but this particular jibe seemed to be worthy of applause. I find myself joining in.

" _Twat_ " I hear George mumble over my shoulder. I'd already told him off for saying that Ed resembled Wallace from Wallace and Gromit. He'd fallen quiet when I said that his beloved Chief Secretary, Danny Alexander, looked like Beaker from The Muppets.

Paddy mutters something about escaping for a cigarette and slinks away. George assumes his seat the moment he leaves the room. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks.

"I am, actually" I reply, looking away from the screen when the leaders start to talk over one another, "It's quite interesting, watching as an independent. It's refreshing to have the freedom to praise and criticise whomever I want". The press would of course corner me afterwards and demand that I make a choice between Ed and David. I didn't know who the winner would be, if there was to be one.

"When I look across this stage, what I see is more debt and more taxes" David argues, pointing to each of his fellow leaders in turn, "More debt and more taxes, some more debt and more taxes, and _definitely_ more debt and more taxes". Natalie Bennett appears unaffected by that assessment of her policies.

"That was rather clever of him" I compliment, "Going along the stage like that". I had to be _fair_ to David. He could be an irritating prick at times, but he wasn't totally hapless.

"It was" George beams.

"Are you sure it isn't David you'd like to marry?" I joke, "He is, after all, on the verge of divorce with Clegg". George gently takes hold of my hand beneath the table. I couldn't be bothered to shake it away.

"Don't get all soppy with me now" I warn. George nods towards the television screen, which is now mostly occupied by the wrinkled face of a man in a hideous purple tie.

"I was just holding on for support" George says, " _Nigel Farage_ ". He feigns a shiver as he says the name. Farage had become quite popular these last twelve months. He was worth listening to, but I found it incredibly difficult to like him.

I lurch forward slightly in my seat, hand ripping away from George's and instead rests on my chest. The pain went away almost as quickly as it had arrived. It was far sharper than that which I'd been experiencing over the last few days. I begin to regret not taking my medication with me.

"He's not _that_ bad" George chuckles. I try and laugh, but I find I'm too breathless. It was the shock of the pain that knocked me so. It's only when George notices the growing paleness of my face that he realises I hadn't been reacting to the bile of Nigel Farage.

"What's wrong?" he panics, drawing the attention of a number of nearby journalists. I make an effort to try and smile at them. I didn't want to start reading reports of how I was apparently dying in the spin room on Twitter.

"Nothing" I insist, wary of attracting unwanted attention, "It was just a slight murmur". George scoffs and helps me to my feet.

"We're going to the hospital" he decides. I was winded, but not entirely weakened. I shrug his arm away and stand as straight as I can. I couldn't intimidate him with my height, for I was about as tall as a Hobbit, but I could try and  _caution_ him.

" _I'm fine_ " I state plainly. It does nothing to convince George. He lowers his voice, suddenly aware that we were in fact surrounded by creatures of the media.

"I don't give a damn about the debate" he speaks quietly, "I'd rather know that you were safe."

"I _am_ safe" I say, "You need to stay here". George appeared almost angered by my insistence.

"I'll ask Fraser to drive me back to the hotel" I add, knowing he wouldn't let me stay here in the spin room even if I did avoid hospital, "You're needed here much more than he is."

I manage to find my brother, but not without George trailing me. He looked most lost when I left him. For David's sake, I hope he snapped out of his fit of worry and focused, if only for a while, on the debate.

I could catch up on the rest later. The hotel room had a sizeable television, but it wouldn't be used on this particular night. I feel another sharp, stabbing pain in my chest as Fraser pulls away from his parking space.

"You're staying at the Marriott, aren't you?" he asks, eyes focused on the traffic around him.

"Yes" I answer, "But that's not where I'd like you to take me". George had a job to do. I was a humble commentator now. The tabloids could press me for a thought or two tomorrow. I could sort myself out by morning. I doubted there was anything _seriously_ wrong with me.

"Where are we going, then?" Fraser asks, puzzled. George had been right to suggest it, but hadn't wanted to take him away from his duties. Fraser himself could return to the spin room once we were there.

"We're going to the hospital" I say.

* * *

"Have I been kidnapped?". I awake in a less than comfortable hospital bed to see David Cameron sat at my side. The presence of my brother and mother upped the Tory count in the room to three. All of them wore stern expressions.

"Did the debate not go very well for you?" I poke.

"Why did you sneak away like that?" David snaps, "You could have been seriously ill". I wasn't connected to any complex machinery or drips. I felt _okay_. A bit groggy, perhaps, but it was early in the morning.

"But I'm not seriously ill" I tell him, sitting up, "Supposedly the pains are stress-induced". I wasn't aware of _being_ stressed. I had some internal anxieties about the election, yes, but nothing that overly bothered me.

"I rushed over as soon as I could" my mother gushes, dashing to my beside and clutching my hand, as though I had but moments left to live, "I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner, Fraser". The man holds his hands up defensively. I'd insisted that he return to the spin room last night, but he'd refused.

"Liz made me stay quiet" he says, and it was true. _I'm fine_ , I had told him, _there's no point panicking everyone_. I wasn't happy to have been kept in for observation, especially as it gave my friends and family an excuse to _worry_.

"You've annoyed George" David says, "You told him you didn't need to go to hospital". George hadn't visited yet, though I suspected he was probably on his way.

"I wasn't dying" I sigh, "The debate was far more important than my silly heart murmurs". David tuts at me and looks away, irritation flashing in his tired blue eyes. I only begin to notice just how rapidly he was aging as he sits by my side. His once floppy hair seemed recede further and further by the day.

"I think your health probably matters more to him than some poxy debate" my mother scolds, before softening her tone to address my cousin, "Oh, and well done, my dear, I thought you presented yourself very well". David smiles appreciatively.

"I'm sorry to have missed it" I say, ignoring the slight nausea I begin to feel in the pit of my stomach, "What I did manage to see was rather interesting". Nicola Sturgeon had proved something of a tough warrior. I'd been quite struck by the way in which she tackled both Ed and David.

"Ed was very good" I'm sure to add. David snorts, but Fraser nods.

"I have to admit it" he says, "But he did far better than I expected". He shrugs when David glares at him.

"Not thinking of rejoining, are you?" my cousin mutters. I snort, but regret it when it makes me feel all the more nauseated.

"That particular ship has long since sailed past me" I say, easing myself back into my pillows in an attempt to settle my stomach. Lord knew what had disturbed it. I rarely touched hospital food.

"His notes were leaked to the papers" Fraser grins, "He left them on his lectern". David shares his delight.

" _Happy warrior_ " he recites gleefully, "What dribble."

The two men continue to chatter away to themselves, and politely I try to stay involved. All the while my mother watches me, perhaps noticing the increasing paleness of my face, and my growing discomfort as I continue to fight the bizarre sickness I feel in my stomach.

"He's a useless specimen" I hear my cousin complain. My brother begins to counter his point, but is cut off when he catches sight of my mother seize the bowl lying empty on a nearby chair.

A number of things happen at once. David stands up sharply and backs away, Fraser steps forward, my mother reaches forward to rest a hand on my back and I'm forced over the empty bowl, depositing what little food I'd had in the last twenty four hours, just as the side room door is opened to reveal a somewhat disheveled George.

"Do I really look _that_ rough?" he asks, lowering the bouquet of flowers he holds. I manage to give him a weary smile before I have to hunch over the bowl again. It wasn't very dignified, but I felt too sick to care.

"What have they been feeding you?" George asks, setting the flowers down and hurrying over to occupy the space David has so wisely vacated just moments before. I was glad to see that George wasn't _angry_ with me.

"She hasn't eaten anything" my mother tells him, rubbing my back softly, "You poor thing". I cheer up slightly when she makes David take away the bowl.

"What have your doctors said?" George asks. My mother, looking down upon the flowers he had bought for me with soft eyes, interjects before I can answer.

"The pains are stress-induced" she says, "It's nothing sinister, thank heavens". I rest my head on my pillows and take a deep breath. The nausea I had felt so intensely now began to subside. I still felt quite dazed, however.

"I'm not stressed" I enforce. My mother takes tightly takes a hold of my hand and looks down on me with eyes that were almost tearful. I imagined she had been quite hysterical when travelling across to Manchester.

"I know you must be concerned about this horrid election" my mother says soothingly, dabbing at non-existent sweat on my forehead with a tissue, "But you must relax". I start to feel the nausea bubbling up again.

"I am relaxed!" I cry, frustration building. Those around me look sceptical. My outburst had only proven my mother right. Perhaps I was stressed. _But what was I stressed about?_ I had no campaigns of my own to worry about, no endless schedule of interviews to work through.

"Ms Nelson?" a gentle voice calls. A young woman pokes her head around the doorway, round spectacles perched on the end of her nose.

"I'm Dr Rose" the lady says, "I just thought I'd pop in and check on you". My mother welcomes her in and insists that I sit up to speak to her. I manage to tame my nausea long enough to do so.

"It's lucky we were able to find a bed for you" the doctor says, checking the clipboard that had been attached to foot of my bed, "Things haven't been easy these past few years". She shoots George a dismissive look. He squirms slightly, but I simply smile. I already liked this particular doctor.

"Might we have the room, Ms Nelson?" Dr Rose requests politely, "It's a bit crowded in here, and I'd like to conduct a couple of tests". Her Northern accent put my mother off. Fraser was already out of the room.

"She's my daughter" my mother says protectively, grabbing me and holding me to her bosom, "I'd like to be with her". Squished against my mother's breasts, I can only blink at the poor doctor, my growing nauseau becoming all the more difficult to ignore.

"Alright" the doctor sighs, eyes now turning to George, "Are you staying too?". I hear Mother mutter something about ' _not addressing him appropriately_ ', but I couldn't say I was at all bothered. Doctors were of a higher rank than we lowly politicians. I'd trade the Commons for a nurse quite happily.

"Do go on, George, my dear" my mother interrupts, "Go and get yourself some breakfast downstairs. You look exhausted, you poor thing". George does as he's told before I can protest. I would have been content for everyone to have stayed with me. Then again, I wasn't entirely sure what these _tests_ were.

"He's not the only one" Dr Rose comments, eyes watching George as he exits through the door. No sooner has he gone, David appears again, now without a bowl. I could picture him simply chucking it away, rather than disposing of its contents properly.

Dr Rose looks at him with narrowed eyes. She doesn't banish him from the room, but instead ignores him. I simply let her get on with her job. She listens to my chest for a minute or two, before politely asking me to lift my shirt, as to allow her to feel about my ribs for any sore points. The closer she gets to my stomach, the more I start to feel sick.

"Oh" David says, face paling just as mine did, "Should I fetch the bowl again?". Dr Rose takes a step back and rests her hands on her hips.

"Yes" she says, glancing only momentarily at my cousin, "Do something useful for a change."


	110. Conversations.

**13th April, 2015.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I'd agreed to only a few events this election season. I'd leave local debates to Alex, who seemed to be dashing about the county like a hare on steroids. I was glad that all of my functions were scheduled in the evening, that I didn't have to troop down endless streets handing down leaflets at the crack of dawn. I'd stayed in hospital for only a day, in the end. Lighter pains in my chest  persisted, as did my nausea most mornings.

"Where are you off to this evening?" my mother asks, looking up from the novel she reads. I'd taken to spending more time at the family home. I'd only have to put up with the bickering between Alex and Isaac otherwise.

"I'm being interviewed by Alastair Campbell" I tell her, brushing the stray hairs from my face. I felt perfectly alright now. I'd at least try and _look_ alright.

"It's not a BBC thing, is it?" my mother questions. I'd already had a call from the BBC asking if I would be willing to appear on their results programme on election day itself. It was rather an early arrangement, but I'd accepted, but not before reminding them that I intended to be here in Henley for my son's count.

"Oh, no. It's a simple public event" I say, lifting my coat from its hook, "I should be back by eight". She only fussed if I came home at too late an hour. I'd given up trying to remind her that I was almost forty-three. _Almost_ being in _three days_.

"Should you _really_ be going out?" my mother warns, resting her spectacles on her knee, "In your condition?". I ignore that and instead slip into my shoes.

"I'll see you later, Mother" I smile, bending down and pecking her on the cheek. She'd been very good to me at the hospital. It was a good job that the men around me had been banished from the room by Dr Rose. It was a good thing that Helena had not been present. _Discretion_ never had been her most prominent trait.

"Drive steady" my mother calls as I reach the front door. It would take just a short drive down to the town hall. There wouldn't be any grand meal afterwards. I could retreat home and have a drink or two, and go to bed. And then hope that the next morning would not be quite so _rough_.

* * *

"Out of the two of us" Alastair Campbell speaks, sitting back casually in his seat before our audience, "Who is the most bad-tempered?". The audience titter. Alastair was far more infamous for his temper than I was.

"I didn't inspire the character _Malcolm Tucker_ " I reply. Alastair had been something of a friend back in the early days of government. He'd resigned after we invaded Iraq, and I'd barely seen him since. I thought it a shame, really.

"I've heard you tell Keith Vaz to _fuck off_ before" Alastair reminds me with a grin. The conversation wasn't likely to remain  highbrow for long. Alastair was involved, after all.

"I've mellowed in my old age" I say. Alastair checks his notes again and tries to steer the conversation back to something of substance. Lord knew why so many people wanted to listen to me speak for an hour, but it was quite heart-warming to see them to interested by my mutterings.

"Do you feel like you're getting old?" Alastair asks curtly. I can't help but laugh. I was certainly being kept on my toes.

"What a courteous question" I respond, "I suppose I do, actually. I'm _forty-three_ on Thursday. It's quite odd". I'd start going grey soon, I suspected.

"I entered politics at such a young age" I go on, "It feels like I've been doing this for centuries". My chest pains already made me feel like a pensioner.

"Do you ever regret entering parliament so early?" Alastair presses me. I was glad our talk had moved to more serious corners. Though it was entirely true that I told Keith Vaz to _fuck off_.

"I don't regret becoming an MP at such a young age" I answer honestly, "But I do regret joining the front bench at such a young age". Alastair frowns. He'd known me only vaguely back then. He had been tough, but never genuinely unpleasant to me.

"I think I was far too eager to please people. I went along with things about which I ought to have asked greater questions" I sigh, " _Iraq_ being the best example". I instantly get the impression Alastair wants to move on, and so he steers our conversation down another path. He wasn't as willing to mention Iraq as I was. I'd got over the fear I had felt in admitting my involvement. Alastair had not yet been so lucky.

"If I remember rightly, you were twenty-eight when you became a Secretary of State for the first time. Most of your colleagues were still working as advisers at that age" Alastair chuckles, his laughter no doubt due to his nervousness at the mention of Iraq, "Did that have any impact on your family life at all?". I always tended to avoid personal questions. Now that I was no longer an MP, my questioners had a greater excuse to press me on matters other than politics. Not that I minded Alastair asking such questions.

"I suppose it did take me away from my children more than I'd have liked" I admit, "They weren't _neglected_ , by any means, but there was much more I could have done with them when they were young". Emily had only been a baby when I'd started at Defence, and Alex a five year old. It was odd, to think of them so _small_. I really was an old woman.

"I think it was definitely wise of me to have them when I while I was young" I assess, "I wouldn't have been able to juggle a baby _and_ the Foreign Office."

"Any plans to settle down now that you're free of the madhouse?" Alastair probes. The audience chuckle but I find I have to feign a smile. I suddenly feel very cold. I veil my discomfort as best I can. I could easily pass it off as another chest murmur. The reality was different, naturally. I knew precisely what was wrong.

"I may do" I say, voice wavering only slightly. Barely any one knew of my engagement. Only two others knew of the matter, one of whom was a doctor.

"Now, _the Labour Party_ " Alastair begins. I regain my smile.

"Ah, brilliant" I grin, "Something _really_ interesting". 

* * *

Alex asked that I return home, but the anger in his voice that he so terribly failed to disguise reminded me why I had escaped to the family home in the first place. His differences with Isaac, it seemed, were not yet resolved. I prayed it had no detrimental impact on his campaign. Yet, when I thought on it a little more, which was _really_ worth losing? A great love, or an election?

"Do you want balloons, Liz?" Nevin asks brightly, sifting through a box of decorations that had been tucked away into the attic many birthdays ago. Our guest grumbles under his breath.

"I don't like balloons" Gordon says, tone dismal. Nevin pulls the string of a dusty party popper in his direction, and giggles like a schoolboy when a stream of coloured paper lands on his head.

"Are you forty-six?" I ask, fighting the urge to laugh, "Or ten?". For a man with a small child, Nevin was in high spirits. Several weeks ago, he had effectively spent his days sleepwalking.

"I might be an old man" my brother beams, reaching into the box for another party popper, "But having little Douglas has certainly lifted my spirits."

" _Babies_ " he sighs, settling a torn paper crown on his head, "I recommend them, Liz". I was glad the tea cup I held was empty. My hands twitched so abruptly that its contents would surely have ended up on the carpet.

"Are you sure he isn't on drugs?" Gordon whispers, a welcome distraction. Nevin disappears momentarily, and so I dash over to the box and seize it. I'd been dying to hide it ever since the damn thing had been brought down from the attic.

"What _are_ you doing?" Gordon asks, watching as I pace about the living room, box in arms, searching for an ideal hiding place. "My family insist that I have a party" I explain, "I can't escape that, but I can escape all of this crap". I would much prefer an evening of wine and gentle conversation to one involving _silly paper hats_.

"I mean, look at this" I say, reaching into the box and withdrawing a red silken blindfold, "We used to use this when we played blind man's bluff as children". I could recall one such game in which a young Nevin, blindfolded, had walked directly into the old grandfather clock in the hall, causing it to topple and smash down onto the ground. He'd only stumbled in that direction because Ian, even younger, had tricked him. I'd found the entire thing hilarious.

"I thought parties among your type involved canapés and string quartets" Gordon guffaws. It was a reasonable assumption. Parties became very much like that once we got older. I'd enjoyed the blind man's bluff games much more than I had enjoyed the canapés. It was at one such stuffy party, of course, that I had met George. _They weren't all bad_.

"We like to have fun too" I tell him. Nevin enters the room again at that point. He eyes me sceptically when he sees I'm holding his box old rubbish. He smiles when he spots the blindfold. "We can play later, Liz" he joked, gently taking the box from me, "We have a party to plan first". It seemed I would have to try and hide the box another time. Nevin flings the blindfold back to me, however.

"You can keep that" he winks, bouncing towards the doorway again, "Lord knows what you're into". He disappears before I can throw it at him. I cast it down on the coffee table when I see Gordon staring at me. It had quite suddenly lost its status as an innoncent symbol of my childhood.

"More tea, Gordon?" I offer politely, cheeks heating up a little more than I'd like under his uneven gaze. There was a hint of amusement in them now. For once, I wished Gordon wasn't so gleeful.

"Will Osborne be visiting soon?" he quizzes. I quickly gather together our empty tea cups and saucers on a tray and make for the kitchen. "More tea" I mumble, " _More tea_."

It's as I make my way to the kitchen that I feel another pain in my chest. Brilliant. I ignore the first, but the second ripples through much fiercer than the first. I lose my balance, and my grip on the tray. As though time itself had slowed, I bend down to catch it, fearing my mother's wrath should I break a single cup.

"Liz!" I hear her cry. My eyes are drawn to her as she dashes into the sitting room. And so down onto the carpet the tray falls, the fine cups and saucers rested upon it bouncing off in all directions. Before I can react to the sound of shattering, an arm is being wrapped around my middle.

"Oh, Liz" my mother practically weeps, "You must be careful". With mild frustration I look down at the fragments of china dusted across the floor.

"I was trying to be careful" I sigh, "I suppose my hand must have slipped". I make a mental note to fetch my medication from upstairs at the earliest possible opportunity.

Gordon joins us at the scene of the carnage and bends down to collect the broken fragments of tea cup on the tray. It was one way of transporting them to the kitchen, I supposed.

"I don't care about the tea cups" my mother says, holding me tightly, reaching up a hand to feel my brow for a temperature, "I mean _you must be careful_ ". Gordon rises to his feet once he's confident the mess has been cleared. It hadn't been as peaceful a visit as he had probably intended. I could kick myself for being so clumsy.

"Is everything alright, Liz?" my old friend asks me, eyes narrowed. My mother opens her mouth to reply to him, but for a change it is I who interrupts her.

"Yes, absolutely" I smile, allowing one hand to be clutched by my mother, and the other to rest on my stomach, "I'm perfectly fine."

* * *

George's visit had come sooner than Gordon might have thought. He would no doubt have been grateful to get away before he arrived. Party business brought him to Oxfordshire, though he had of course decided to seek refuge in my home, no longer a battleground between Alex and Isaac, rather than an unfamiliar hotel. My promised birthday party would take place tomorrow. George insisted that he hang around in time for it.

"This is such _bollocks_ " he mutters to himself, stretched out on the bed, a copy of The Mirror in his hands, "This lot reckon that Miliband is _ahead_ of David". I'd managed to ignore much of rantings whilst I was getting ready. I was grateful to my body for sparing me my nausea on this particular morning.

"They might be right" I sigh, filing through my wardrobe to choose a fresh dress for the day, "It's getting very close". I hear the newspaper George holds slap down on the bed.

"You don't really think Miliband could win, do you?" he scoffs. I pick out a pleasant navy blue number and measure it up against myself in the mirror. _It would do_. I shut George's murmuring out as I slip into it.

"You're not an idiot, George" I say, checking my appearance once more in the mirror, "You always knew this would be a difficult election". George takes up another type of Mirror and sighs heavily. Why he read it, I didn't know. Then again, his only other option was The Guardian. _This was a formerly Labour household, after all_.

There is a faint buzz as my phone vibrates against my bedside table. George reaches across for it before I can, and so I turn again to the mirror. The dress I slipped into felt ever so slightly _tighter_. It wasn't a feeling I welcomed, but I knew there was little I could do.

"Your girlfriend has sent you a message" George tells me. I roll my eyes. Hillary Clinton had been in regular contact these past few weeks. Whilst Britain had but weeks of campaigning to put up with, the US had _months_. I had been most glad when Hillary had put herself forward for nomination.

"She wants me to go to the states, to help her with her campaign" I say, pulling at the material about my waist. I couldn't help myself. I was forever being moaned at for being too thin. Now it appeared I was putting _on_ weight, I didn't like it.

In the mirror's reflection I catch a glimpse George's face falling. "I'm not shooting off the moment our own election ends" I reassure him quickly, "I doubt I'll be doing much for her _this_ year". There were enough months in the cycle. I'd been bound by my position at the time of her last bid for the presidency. I had high regard for Obama, naturally, but Hillary was a good friend.

"Heavens, you're popular" George chuckles, as my phone buzzes yet again. I take my appearance for what it is and reach over to the bed to reclaim the phone. Like a child, George holds it further away.

"I'd rather you didn't sit and read every message I receive" I say. I'd been stupid enough to tell him my password.

"Why? Are you hiding someone?" George taunts. Again, I try to take back the phone, but with little success. There was nothing of particular interest stored in it, but I could recall there being a handful of messages I'd rather were kept secret.

"Who is Rebecca Rose?" George squints at the screen. I swipe for the phone, and, finally, take hold of it. The name of the kind doctor I had been seen by in Manchester flashes up on its screen. I was out of her care, now, consigned once more to the goodness of Oxfordshire's doctors. Rose had, however, suggested keeping in contact. My mother had effectively forced her into such a suggestion, borne out of her worry that something would slip from Dr Rose's mouth and into the tabloids. I thought better of her.

Still, she gave me support where I needed it. My own county seemed to be full of rather stuffy male doctors. Dr Rose had been quite refreshing company.

"A doctor" I tell George, stupidly. I regret saying anything at all when he face falls again. I'd managed to stop him worrying these past few days by avoiding the subject of medicine entirely.

"Don't give yourself a haemorrhage" I infuse, keen to stem whatever panic was sure to ensue, "It's only to spare me going to the hospital week after week". I did appreciate George's caring, but he could be a little overbearing at times.

"Going to the hospital on a regular basis isn't an issue" George tries to argue, slipping down from his spot on the bed and moving over to me with a pained expression.

" _I don't need the hospital_ " I reply, quite suddenly rather frustrated, "I'm alright". George remains unconvinced.

"I know you still get chest pains" he babbles, more to himself than me, "Though if this _Rose_ lady is able to help you-". Something in me snaps quite suddenly.

"It's nothing to do with the chest pains" I snarl. I feel guilty almost immediately. To his credit, George doesn't respond in kind. I supposed he had to have a great deal of patience if he was willing to spend the rest of his life by my side.

"Then what's wrong with you?" he asks quietly, the softness of his tone calming me slightly. I weigh my options. To tell him, or not to tell him? _That_ was the question.

Yet, before I can even attempt to explain, a loud clatter sounds out below stairs, and George and I both find ourselves hurrying down to investigate.

My heart sinks an inch or two when I hear argument break out in the sitting room. Flanked by George, I push the door open slowly. Fingers jabbing in the air, curses flying, brows furrowed deep with anger, two young men yell at one another, deeply uncivilised creatures sparring in an otherwise civilised room.

White chunks of marble sprinkle the rug before the fireplace. Clearly, I was not the only clumsy member of the Nelson clan.

The sight of Alex and Isaac locked in so fiery an exchange did initially sadden me, but the more I hear, the more I'm tempted to laugh. "You're pathetic" Isaac growls, "Absolutely pathetic."

"It was actually an accident" Alex responds, calmer by only a degree, "But the more I think on it, the more I'm proud". Issac gestures towards the lumps of marble at his feet.

"It was a gift" he cries. George seems confused, but I'm forced to put a hand to my mouth to stifle my amusement. I knew precisely what the chunks of marble had once been. A rather fine piece that I'd placed on my mantelpiece, after many hours of pleading from Isaac. It was not something I, personally, would have chosen, but in an effort to make him feel all the more welcome, I'd given in. This was his home now, after all.

"Yes, a gift from me" Alex bites, "And what a waste of fucking money it was". Only that shocks me. His tutors at Eton would have made him _live_ in detention had they heard such language.

"It is now" Isaac growls under his breath, bending down to collect the pieces of marble in his palm, " _Prick_ ". It unnerved me somewhat to see Alex so riled, but knowing what had actually caused this particular row made me want to giggle.

"What _are_ they talking about?" George whispers, retreating back into the hallway. I coukd bottle my laughter for only so long.

"A prized possession of Isaac's" I grin, "A bust of David Lloyd George."


	111. Reminiscing.

**27th April, 2015.**

**A café in London.**

Elections were often quite surreal. Serious arguments and slogans aside, there were almost always slightly comical moments that stood out in memory. As I glance up at the small television mounted on the wall of the quaint cafe I sit in, I begin to wonder whether I was witnessing such a moment unfold.

On a stage, surrounded by accountants of all people, my cousin stands, top button undone, shirt sleeves rolled up. A thin layer of sweat lines his brow, and with every vigorous movement his increasingly thin hair jumps about in all directions. "And if I seem lively" he tells his audience, "It's because I feel bloody lively."

"Taking a risk, having a punch, having a go" he goes on, stabbing at the air with an impassioned fist, " _That pumps me up_ ". The accountants who watch him grin from ear to ear, no doubt relieved to witness a bit of excitement. I, on the other hand, can only look on in bemusement.

 _That pumps me up_. I couldn't accuse David of being without enthusiasm. This particular level of excitement, however, was perhaps a little too much. Only John Prescott could ever get away with actually _having a punch_.

"What a knob" Jonathan mumbles. He was a fool, perhaps, but not quite a knob. My cousin had made the rather brave decision to announce that he had no intention of running for a third term. Having already retired from the Commons, I could respect him a great deal for it. As the weeks went by, however, David seemed to realise that still had a second term to win. And so slightly erratic, hyped-up rallies such as that shown on the television ensued.

"I'd be delighted to know what dirt you have on him" Jonathan grins over his coffee, "Even if I am writing a book about you". I'd agreed to let my old advisor talk to colleagues of mine for information, but I'd also agreed to talk to him myself. After all, I knew my thoughts better than any one.

"I suppose I could tell you of the time I caught him trying to dispose of cannabis in one of my mother's hanging baskets" I sigh, hiding my glee at the memory as best I could. Jonathan lights up visibly.

"Now you need to tell me" he says. And so, almost fondly, I look back.

_On a mild day in the waning days of August, on an otherwise undisturbed estate in the Oxfordshire hills, I hear a rustling sound._

_I remove the earphones of the new Walkman my father had given me and stop in my tracks. I might have thought it was a bird or squirrel moving about in an overhanging tree, had it not been for the sound of gravel crunching beneath someone's boot._

_Around a corner I turn, to a side of exterior of the house rarely visited. There stands my dear cousin, stretched up onto his tip-toes, one hand reaching up to part the flowers in a nearby hanging basket, the other holding a clear bag filled with lumps of green._

_I'd done my reading. I was fifteen years of age, but not in any way frightened of confronting my cousin. On the contrary, this particular situation made me very smug indeed. "What are you doing?" I ask innocently. The bag slips from David's hand when he jumps in fright._

_"Must you always sneak up on me?" he snaps, snatching it back from the gravel and shielding it in a closed fist. I smile sweetly._

_"I do believe this is my home" I reply. David grumbles to himself under his breath and attempts to slip the bag into his pocket without me noticing. I do notice, of course._

_"My mother is very fond of growing things" I say, "Though I'm not sure she'd want to start growing that particular plant". David bounds up to me and points an accusing finger in my direction._

_"If you say anything-" he warns, blue eyes flashing with worry rather than anger. I don't even flinch. David had forever sought to intimidate me, with no success thus far._

_"I won't criticise you, David" I beam, "You're only doing what a good Bullingdon boy would do."_

Jonathan snorts. "And did you tell anyone?" he asks. I stir the somewhat off-colour tea that had been placed in front of me and shake my head.

"You're the first to know" I say, "I knew my mother would go mad if she found out". What David had done with that mysterious bag was beyond my knowledge. 

"So you do care for him then? Behind it all?" Jonathan asks. I could see how he might find this a topic of relevance. Many journalists over the years had posed many questions about how exactly I got on with David. Some said we hated each other, others said we were the greatest of friends. I could say honestly that neither was true.

"He's family" I smile, putting on a brave to take a sip of my less than appealing tea, "Of course I care for him."

"Oddly enough, he cares for me too" I add, "There is actually a large heart beneath the pomposity and clear-cut accent."

_September 1988. I push aside my usual reservations about vanity and spend what few minutes I have to spare in front of the mirror. I wanted not a hair out of place, nor a dash of makeup misplaced. Not that I was trying to impress, of course._

_I don't jump when I hear my bedroom door creak open. "I'm heading to the bar in a minute or two" a slightly more mature David tells me, "I could drop you off on the way, if you'd like". I take a moment to reassure myself that my outfit was suitable, before turning to him with a puzzled expression. It was very rare indeed to hear my cousin being helpful._

_"Thank you" I say, "But I'm walking". David inches further into the room, brows furrowing most sharply. Had Nevin been around, he would probably have reacted in a similar way, such was the protectiveness of my family._

_"It'll be dark when the film finishes!" David cries. I slip on the coat I'd cast over my bed and look about for my bag. "Then thank Heavens street lamps exist" I retort. Again, David shifts closer. I could already tell that he wouldn't relent easily. I'd insist on walking to the cinema whether he liked it or not._

_"What is it you're going to see, again?" my cousin asks. He already knew the answer, of course, but nothing would stop him in his attempts to lecture me on how wrong I was to be going out. As a citizen of the countryside, I intended to make the most of my trip to London, starting with an evening spent with the kind dark-eyed boy I'd met at Fenton House earlier in the year._

_"Child's Play" I answer. David blocks the doorway._

_"You don't like horror films!" he argues. It was entirely true that I wasn't a massive fan of them, but this particular one had caught my interest. It was either this, or Who Framed Roger Rabbit?. That was one film I was quite keen on avoiding._

_"I'll be in good company" I sigh, brushing past my cousin and making my way across the landing towards the staircase. David pursues me all the way down to the bottom step. "I don't trust him" he murmurs._

_"You've never met him" I remind him._

_"Don't let him touch you" David instructs, standing in front of the door as I slip my shoes on, "I won't mind picking you up later, if he tries anything". I roll my eyes._

_"You might like him, if you actually met him" I say, stretching up and giving my cousin a peck on the cheek. I found his carping to be very irritating indeed, but I was reassured by the knowledge that he actually cared about me. We'd had far too many arguments over the years._

_"I doubt it" David sighs, admitting defeat, "But so long as you're happy."_

How incredibly silly it seemed now. The two were almost inseparable, natural allies as well as being genuinely good friends. Tony and Gordon had only ever bickered like children.

I'm pulled away from my thoughts and back to the reality of the café when I hear the scratching of Jonathan's pencil against paper. He'd taken with him an obnoxiously large notebook, into which he poured his many ideas for his promised book. The relationships I'd built up with my colleagues appeared to be today's focus.

"What was Miliband like in the early days?" Jonathan asks. He was my Ed. Ed and I were no longer as estranged as we had been, but our friendship was not quite repaired. I maintained most of the criticisms I'd made of his politics.

"Awkward, but incredibly compassionate" I reply, "He still is, really."

_Another binder tumbles from my hand. Less than agile, I try to bend down to fetch it, but my movements are restricted by the growing bump about my middle. 1995 was already proving to be a busy year, and my increased clumsiness did little to help._

_Ed swoops in as though summoned. He smiles rather goofily at me when he places the binder back in my hands. "Are you sure you should be here?" he asks kindly._

_"Nonsense" I respond, "I can manage". I didn't want to take maternity leave just yet. There was far too much to do._

_"Can Lionel not help?" Ed asks, pulling out a chair for me. I concede to the pain in feel in my back and allow myself a minute or two of rest._

_"I don't need him to dote on me" I say, nodding for Ed to take the next chair, "Besides, I have my Ed by my side."_

_"I'm afraid I won't agree to marry you" he smiles. I pat his arm gratefully. He was so splendid a friend._

_"Just stand by me" I smile, relaxing as best as my bump would allow, "That's all I need."_

Ed had been essential to me when I was expecting Alex. Not that Lionel had been absent. In fact, from the moment I told him of my situation he had been far from absent.

It's then I'm struck by a horrid thought. Jonathan was content to scribble away at his notebook, but I'm forced to seek comfort in my tea. It wasn't the best cup I'd had, but it was _something_.

I'd turned to Lionel in 1994 because I'd felt I had no other option. I'd since realised that I _did_ have another option, but, given I now had Emily, wouldn't regret confiding in Lionel all the same. In 1994, I had been alone, bound by the responsibilities of my office, and far too young to manage on my own.

I was now engaged, retired from elected office and _forty-three years of age_. I had no excuse this time, no right to conceal what I knew. And so, as Jonathan mumbles away to himself, I withdraw my phone and hastily type a message to George. He was gallivanting around the north somewhere on another quest to win votes, but I'd insist that he return to London at the earliest opportunity. I would tell him myself, no euphemisms, no beating about the bush. My reformation as a human being had been about _honesty_ , had it not?

"Now, what about Charles Kennedy? I hear Jonathan ask, "He deserves an honourable mention". He deserved more than that. He was, potentially, my most loyal ally. Even when Ed had deserted me, and Gordon was enraged by my decision to quit the party, Charles had remained by my side.

Yet I had not seen him recently. I'd called on a number of occasions, even driven up to his London home to check on him, but with little gain. I wanted to assume that he was busy fighting for his seat, but there was little sign of him in the press. My concern for him grew just as my concerns about the election grew. Clearly I was stressed after all.

I needed Charles. So good a confidante was he, that I had told him what only myself, my mother, and that lovely Dr Rose knew.

" _I'm in something of a pickle, Charles_ " I had said only a couple of weeks ago, when last I'd seen him, " _I didn't anticipate this at all._ "

" _Don't be silly. You're in nothing of the sort_ " he had replied, the kindness in his otherwise tired eyes comforting me, " _Though do keep in mind that I expect to be made a godfather._ "


	112. May 7th.

**7th May, 2015.**

**Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

I'd spent far too much time in confession. I'd been effectively forced to go as a child, as so many Catholic children in my community were, told to tell of every wrong deed I had done in the last week or so. When I was older, and supposedly wiser, I started to confide in priests again, when the decisions I made in government began to weigh heavily on my conscience.

Was God really the all-powerful being some believed him to be? I highly doubted it. But I could at least derive some comfort telling myself that there was someone up there who saw fit to judge me. Religion had been tricky for me, but over the years I had come to accept it. I did not believe my God shaped man, nor did I believe he created the planet I inhabited. I did believe, however, that there was _someone_ in the skies above who watched and cared for everything and everyone who passed beneath His sight. I _wanted_ to believe it.

And so here I find myself, hands clasped together in prayer, head bowed, seeking the comfort I would need to face the new day. The election had come along far quicker than I had anticipated. Never had I felt so _ill_. I'd faced many an election by now, but this felt to me to be the worst. Independence had given me great freedom during the campaign itself. Now I felt tortured.

Which Britain would the nation wake up to tomorrow? Cameron's, or Miliband's? Which vision did the people of the country see more hope in? Who would the voters choose? _My cousin, or one of my oldest friends?_ This was nothing but torture.

A soft hand is placed on my back, and gradually I come to my senses again. It was frightfully early, and so for the last twenty minutes or so I had the church to myself. Now, however, my son joined me. He would whisper a prayer or two later in the day. Lord knew how events would pan out. I was optimistic, naturally, but quietly cautious.

It was time to go. The longer I delayed, the more the press would start to congregate. And so, with a final word to whatever all-mighty being presided over the travails of my life, I rise to my feet and exit the church. Alex and I walk silently, most absorbed by our shoes. There was so much I could say to him, so many words of reassurance and support I could offer, but I find I'm in the mood to say nothing.

"They reckon turnout will be slightly higher than last time" my son says quietly. If that higher turnout worked in my son's favour, I would be content. The great possibility of a backlash against my family troubled me greatly, however. I wouldn't have the constituency I had so passionately fought for fall into the the hands of a stranger. What my old constituents thought of the new Nelson was another matter.

"Didn't you say you had an appointment with the doctor this morning?" Alex asks. I loosen the ties of my coat and take a deep breath. My head hurt, but my sickness had at least gone away. _Four months gone_. That was Dr Rose's assessment. " _We'll get it right this time_ " George told me, " _Somehow, we'll get it right"_. I'd already started to show, but said nothing of it publicly. The press delighted in speculation.

It is the press who confront me as I enter my local polling station. With Alex by my side, blue rosette pinned to his chest, I stride along the pavement. "How will you be voting today, Ms Nelson?" they called. I'd already made my myself quite clear, but they wanted to me to say the words clearly, without euphemism or metaphor. _I'll be voting Conservative_. I could only say it to myself. To say aloud took a great deal of courage.

Alex is pulled away by the media, encircled by cameras and microphones and boss-eyed folk of the right. He might be their MP before the day was done. Imagine that. My little Alex, the bookish boy with the auburn curls, an MP. I'd prayed this morning not just for his success, but for him to avoid making the mistakes that had so plagued me during my tenure. _He could do better. I wanted him to be my MP._

"Good morning, Ms Nelson" a polling station attendant greets, signing my name off her list with a sharpened pencil. I take my ballot paper and retreat into the confines of a nearby booth. I wouldn't bother with the curtains.

Alongside the symbol of a rose in bloom I see the name of my old friend Kevin. For years, he had chaired my local party, and for years he had backed me. Of course, he'd abandoned me once I abandoned the party. And now he sought to replace me. Even if he did preside over meetings in which I was regularly slated, I _respected_ him. Kevin, however, would not be getting my vote today.

Alexander Nelson, Conservative. What odd words they were. I felt as though he had been born only yesterday, and now here I stood, pencil hovering above the box that would promise him a vote. How bizarre life could be.

The cross is drawn. The oak tree symbol printed beside my son's name grows a little taller. _I voted Conservative_. That was something I would not be posting on Twitter with great fanfare. I wasn't ashamed to support my son, but cautious of lending his party too much support.

" _We'll live in Downing Street_ " George had said.

" _And if things don't go your way?"_ I'd asked, bearing no malice at all. George's face had hardened somehwhat.

" _Then we'll make do elsewhere_ " he had assured me.

Into the ballot box I push my paper. It was done. I wanted to spend the rest of the day thinking on other things. I could read a book, or call a friend, or have a dabble on my piano. That fateful ten o'clock exit poll was _hours_ away. I could avoid reality until then.

_"Do you hope for a Conservative win today, Ms Nelson?"_

_"Will a Miliband premiership be a disaster for Britain?"_

_"Does your son owe his success only to you?"_

The press bombard me with questions as I leave. Alex stands close, facing them down as I had always done in times past. Voting for a side I had opposed these past twenty years had been incredibly difficult, but looking across at my son as he tackles the media both national and regional reassures me. I made the right decision. Henley ought to be in the hands of a Nelson.

"I don't know how Isaac is voting" Alex sighs. The young Freidman had risen early to attend a lecture. Whether or not he had stopped off at the polling station on the way, I did not know. Memories of him standing alongside Nick Clegg were still fresh, and _sore_.

" _His father manages our family business"_ Nevin had spat, in one particular whiskey-fuelled rant, " _Our father is probably turning in his grave. To think our business is being run by a liberal_ ". I had wanted to remind Nevin that Freidman had only taken over control of the business because of his complacency, but wanted to avoid conflict.

He'd then managed to get his hands on £100,000 worth of shares in the company. " _I'll claw it back from the bastards_ " my brother had declared. He'd done little to amend our problems. I _liked_ Isaac, I knew how happy he had made Alex. _What an awful thing politics could be_.

"Who will win tonight, Ms Nelson?" a particularly young reporter poses. I ignore them. I had no decent answer to give, mainly because _I didn't know_. Peter Mandelson and I would be making no bets on this particular election.

" _You must prefer one of us_ " George had cheekily asked me one evening, " _Miliband or Cameron? Come on, it's not that difficult". Not for you, no._ I cared for both. One was family, one was a friend. I'd had great difficulties with both, but still I _loved_ them both. Politics was a very trivial thing, but on election days it mattered. And given my own history, I wouldn't be able to escape it.

"How will you react if Labour are victorious today?". That was a much better question. Not that I was sure of the answer, of course. Both sides had ideas worth looking at. My old side were much more compassionate than that of my cousin, but weren't as competent on financial matters. And even if my conflict with Ed had been resolved, _he still did not look like a prime minister_. The only chance I had of smiling today was if my son was elected to succeed me. I'd smile for neither Conservative nor Labour.

* * *

"It's quite silly" I speak quietly, "I feel frightened". The person I speak to over the phone laughs nervously.

"That makes two of us" George says, "At least you don't have to worry about _winning_ ". I tried to console myself with the knowledge that I would be free of the Commons no matter who won in Henley. Elected office would trouble me no more. It made for little comfort now, but it was _something_.

"It'll all be over soon enough" George says, "And then we can go home and listen to one of your Elvis records". I smile slightly at that.

"You don't like Elvis" I say. I can almost sense George's grin. Tatton was many miles away, but even from that distance he was able to calm me. "We are definitely not calling the baby _Elvis_ , by the way" he adds.

" _Damn_ " I reply sarcastically, "It'll have to be _Blondie_ , then". It was quite an absurd conservation to have, given the gravity of what was now happening up and down the country. _Yet it relaxed me_.

I let George go, and wonder back slowly to the count. The town hall was packed full of helpers again with tables lining the room, volunteers from all corners of the constituency hastily filing through the many ballot papers that were piled up in front of them.

Alex was swarmed by local press. The BBC would turn up soon. Henley had become something of a Tory target. The fact that it was my old seat made it all the more interesting, apparently. "We're certainly feeling optimistic" Alex's campaign manager says, elbowing reporters out of the way of my son.

"Labour drove Elizabeth Nelson away" the man speaks, "They've driven the residents of Henley away too". Alex's Labour opponents occupy a different side of the hall. Many in their group had glared at me when I arrived. I expected little different. No doubt one of them would approach at some point and attempt to start an argument. _I was here to support my son._ Did I feel totally comfortable? _Absolutely not_. _But I needed to stay_.

"Steady on, Alex" Nevin cautions, placing a gentle hand on his nephew's shoulder, "A dissenter approaches". I roll my eyes and bat his hand away. I hoped that Alex would at least approach the figure who walked towards him.

" _Isaac_ " Alex greets stiffly. The young man in question offers him a small smile. I hadn't seen the two in the same room for quite some time now.

"I just managed to vote before the polling station closed" the boy speaks. Nevin snorts.

"I'm sure the Lib Dems are grateful" he remarks. I nudge him with my elbow and shoot him a disapproving look. I hadn't liked the way Isaac had stood alongside Clegg, but I still liked him. I liked to believe that politics was relatively unimportant where love was concerned.

"Do shut up, Nevin" I warn. My brother does as he's told, but continues to glare in the direction of Isaac.

"This isn't Stalin's Russia. You're perfectly entitled to vote how you wish" Alex speaks up, "I think it's right that you should vote with your heart, rather than what is expected of you". Isaac smiles softly. There was a fondness in his eye that would melt even the most hardened man. Even Nevin's expression appears to soften.

"I know" Isaac replies, "That's why I voted for you". A moment of silence passes. The sound of shuffling and the casting aside of empty ballot boxes distracts me for only a second.

It's the call of the returning office that disturbs us all. There was no time for any great scene of romantic reunion. Their reconciliation would have to wait until the results were announced. Alex does find the time, however, to give his beloved a grateful peck on the lips. He might be defeated tonight, but there was _one_ battle Alex had won.

As the other candidates assemble on the stage, and the media get into position, Alex turns to me. "If I let the Nelson side down, I'll be very disappointed" he says quietly. I hug him before he can walk away.

"You won't let us down" I tell him earnestly, " _You'll do us proud_ ". Henley belonged to the Nelsons. Six candidates felt themselves worthy of my old seat, but I trusted only one. I'd waste no time on accusations of _nepotism_. Quite abruptly, my nerves are replaced by a strong feeling of determination.

 _And so it begins_. I'd stood on that stage enough times to know exactly what each candidate was feeling. The returning office recites his usual lines, as the people gathered at his feet settle down. The clicking of cameras and whirring of cameras make for poor distraction.

"MARK STEVENSON, GREEN PARTY" the returning officer reads, the hall falling totally silent, "THREE THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY."

"CHRISTOPHER JONES, UKIP. SIX THOUSAND, SEVEN HUNDRED AND TWELVE". I find I gasp at that figure. It was quite a jump up from the last election.

"SUE COOPER, LIBERAL DEMOCRATS. FOUR THOUSAND, EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY THREE". The local Lib Dems bow their heads. I had already caught a number in their team _crying_. We were, by now, in the early hours of Friday morning. There were many results yet to be declared, with very little indication as to who would end the election victorious. What was clear, however, was that the Lib Dems were having a thoroughly disastrous night. I'd shed no tears for their fate, unless Charles fell too.

"LAURENCE CRICK, INDEPENDENT. TWO HUNDRED AND FOUR". I watch Alex as he stands, perfectly serenely, on the stage. He even manages a smile for a brief moment.

"KEVIN HUGHNE, LABOUR". Sides both blue and red freeze where they stand. The Labourites in the room join hands, whilst the members of the local Conservative Association huddle a few inches closer to one another. I shut my eyes instinctively and wait.

"SIX THOUSAND, NINE HUNDRED AND TEN". My eyes are wrenched open again. It was a significant drop from last time. The paleness of Kevin's face is as good an indication as any. No candidate had managed to break the ten-thousand mark. _Henley was going blue_.

"ALEXANDER NELSON" the returning officer speaks, looking down at his notes for guidance, "THIRTY-TWO THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY SIX". A deafening cheer erupts behind me. I'd known, from the moment poor old Kevin's numbers were announced, that my son would be crowned the winner, but hearing his own tally made the moment feel all the more incredible. Thirty-two thousand. Never, in my time as MP for the constituency, had I won so many votes.

Alex would turn twenty in July. At the age of nineteen, he had effectively _demolished_ his opponents. It takes me several moments to recover from my shock. Alex himself is remarkably collected. Almost casually, he shakes the hands of his rivals and steps forward to address his audience.

 _Alex Nelson MP._ How lovely those words would look on a plaque on one of the many office doors of the Commons.

I'm the last to stop applauding. I didn't care if I embarrassed him. Nor did I care if the media picked up on the fact that I was _crying_. In this particular moment, I didn't think about the state of the country at large. I didn't care about the nationwide result. I didn't care that Henley had gone blue for the first time since 1992. All I could think of was _Alex_.

"To quote my mother, upon her defeat of Michael Heseltine twenty-three years ago" Alex speaks, " _Bloody hell._ "

* * *

 _4:55am_. Much had happened in the last few hours. Results from all corners of the country started to pour in. Swings varied, but most worked in the favour of one party. Old Labour colleagues appeared on all networks claiming, with increasing desperation, that the election was still too early to call. Experience had taught me better than that.

The next government would be a Conservative one, and without the aid of the newly diminished liberals. Nick Clegg had managed to cling on to his seat, though Ed Balls had not been so lucky. I had been genuinely sorry to see him go in the end.

The result that most troubled me, however, was that of Charles. Ross, Skye and Lochaber had decided to place their trust in a Scottish National Party candidate this time around. I'd managed to keep my composure until Charles himself had stepped forward to give a conciliatory speech. I found I could only sob when he called me afterwards.

" _Your Alex has won"_ Charles had said, veiling his own sorrow very well indeed, " _Think about him, not old fools like me"_. _Alex had won_. I remind myself of that fact whenever I began to feel sad again. I needed something to disguise my disappointment, as my first port of call once back in London was the BBC.

"What do you make of the night so far, Ms Nelson?" Andrew Neil asks. I had promised the BBC that I would call by when I was able to. I considered myself lucky to be appearing after the result of the election became clear. Neil could not pressure me into a decision between Cameron and Miliband, for the decision had already been made by the country.

"It's certainly been one of the most interesting election nights of my career" I say, "Given how close both sides were in the polls even this morning, it's quite shocking to see how things have turned out". Andrew Neil smirks.

"Are you saddened by the results?" he asks. I'm already prepared for that particular question.

"I'm saddened by certain results" I answer, "I was very sorry to hear that Charles Kennedy has lost his seat, and I was disappointed to see Ed Balls and Douglas Alexander lose in their respective constituencies". Neil would not accept that.

"But what about the nationwide result?" he presses me. I wouldn't yield just yet.

"I trust the people of this country to make the right decision" I say, "The best government for them is the one they choose". Neil grins. I may have retired from the Commons, but I was still a politician in nature. I at least had the tact to avoid questions without provoking too much anger.

"Except that rather diverts away from the question I put to you" Neil says, allowing his spectacles to slide a little further down the bridge of his nose, "Are you, Elizabeth Nelson, happy to see David Cameron return to Downing Street?". The bluntness of was intended to trap me. He needn't have bothered. The more I think on it, the more I begin to realise that I was not sorry to see my cousin returned as prime minister. I did feel incredibly sorry for Ed, however.

"To be frank, Andrew, I don't know how I feel" I admit, "My focus throughout this campaign has been on my son. I've expressed my feelings about both David and Ed on a number of occasions in the past, and I know them both to be very capable politicians."

"But I'm afraid I feel neither sorrow nor joy for either side" I sigh, almost _ashamed_ to admit to such a loss of direction, "I'm sorry for Ed, but also pleased for my cousin". Neil frowns at me. I couldn't blame him for being puzzled. _I didn't understand it either_.

" _Moving on_ " Neil breathes, "You've frequently criticised your old side for their sloppy attitude to the economy. What did George Osborne get right, and what did Ed Balls get wrong?". I knew both men were watching. One was still dealing with his defeat, and the other was my intended. I knew it would be difficult to be fair to both.

"I don't think Labour had enough to say on cutting the deficit. They offered very little in the way of sensible spending" I respond, "That doesn't mean, of course, that the Tories' plan is perfect. If the Tories had the economy _exactly_ right, they would have eliminated the deficit when originally promised". George would curse me for that, but I found I couldn't help myself. Interrogators such as Neil were usually stumped by honesty. I could only dance around questions for so long.

"Now that you're no longer an MP" my interviewer points, wisely changing subject before I can insult George any more, "What's next?". I smile. I was glad to be free of the Commons. To hear that freedom confirmed aloud lifted my spirits considerably.

"I think a break might be in order first. I'll carry on speaking up on issues I care about, of course. I'll certainly return to talk you, Andrew". He grins when I wink at him.

"I've been offered a position on the British Heart Foundation's Board of Trustees, actually" I mention, as though chatting with a friend. No doubt there were a number of important counts to focus on, but Neil appears to be in no great hurry.

"I hear you'll be heading off to America soon" he chips in, sitting back in his seat casually. I nod. Hillary Clinton would have to make do without my help for now. More important matters would keep me in Britain for the remainder of this year. Beyond that? All of the US beckoned.

"I'll be helping with Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign" I assert, "And I look forward to discussing it with you at some point in the future, Andrew". The man smiles kindly.

"Elizabeth Nelson" he says, bowing his head, "Thank you."

And so that was it. I'd appear on the BBC again before too long, that I was sure of, but there was something symbolic about this particular appearance. I wasn't just a former cabinet minister or _Deputy Prime Minister_ , but a former MP. I didn't mind, really. I wouldn't avoid television, but I was happy to leave behind obligatory interviews on programmes such as this. _Have I Got News for You_ made for a greater stage.

This stage belonged to Alex now.

* * *

My taxi rolled up outside one of the many grey buildings along Victoria Street.

It felt incredibly strange to be back in Labour Party HQ again. It was something of an impromptu visit, but one I felt I had to make. I'd managed an hour or two of sleep after my interview with the BBC, and awoken to see the election had reached a stable conclusion. _Conservative majority_. I'd tried to call Alex, but a rather hoarse Isaac had answered the phone to tell me that he had fallen asleep almost as soon as he'd returned from the count in Henley. I'd listened to one of my many Elvis albums over a bowl of cereal, and driven Emily to school.

I'd first heard of Ed's resignation on the radio. I had known since the early hours of this morning that he would stand aside, but still I found it affected me. And so here I was, looking rather clueless in the reception area of a building I should have been less than welcome in.

I'm stumbled upon by Harriet Harman shortly after I arrive. Her expression was too marred by exhaustion to give me any indication of her opinion of me. Harriet had not been best pleased when I'd resigned from the party. I could understand how my appearance at party head quarters might be rather provocative. Harriet, thankfully, appears to be too drained to fight.

"Liz" she smiles wearily, "This it the last place I'd expect to find you". I manage a small smile myself. I may not have backed the party, but, having been present in 2010, I knew exactly how they were feeling.

"I'd like to see Ed" I state plainly. Harriet's eyes widen by an inch or two. She takes a long sip of the coffee she holds and sighs heavily.

"Oddly enough" she replies, "I think he'd actually be very glad to see you". I gulp. I'd doubted Ed's abilities as a leader, and had apparently been proven right. In my anger, I'd damned him, consoling myself once I'd calmed down by telling myself that I was merely being honest.

Yet, as Harriet leads me up the long staircase up to the leader's office, I almost wish I had said nothing. Could I face him, having doubted his leadership more or less from the beginning? Ed and I had begun to rebuild our friendship, but today was a poor day for attempted reconciliation. Would he be bitter? Could I blame him if he was?

Justine Miliband's embracing of me reassures me rather. She had been a friend to me just as Ed had. It comforts me, to know that, despite every horrid criticism I'd made, she still thought of me as a friend. "He's just through there" Justine speaks quietly, bowing her head the moment she pulls away from me. Her voice wavers ever so slightly, and from the way her hands shake I can tell she is fighting back tears. Harriet volunteers to keep her company while I walk ahead.

Ed Miliband stands at the window, dark eyes watching idle traffic on the street below. He doesn't turn around when I step into the room, but does call out to me. "I think it might rain later" he says. His voice was not laced with grief, as Justine's had been. His posture, however, told me more than his voice ever could. He slumps slightly, arms hanging loosely by his sides. And when he does turn around, and faces me directly, I'm met with the eyes of a thoroughly fed up man. The sorrow in them throws me off balance, and, quite unexpectedly, I start to crumble.

"I'm sorry, Ed" is all I can muster before I break down. I knew how difficult this would be, and I knew this meeting would occupy my thoughts for days afterwards. "I'm so sorry" I sob, a pathetic mess of a person, begging before a person who had no reason whatsoever to forgive me. Yes, I had been honest in what I'd said about Ed, but in my frustration with him I had forgotten that he was my friend.

I freeze when two arms are wrapped around me. It was terribly cliche, no doubt, to come together in this way, but I didn't care. "I'm crying all over your lovely suit" I exclaim, brushing away the tears from my cheeks before they can dampen his lapel any further.

"You needn't worry" Ed replies, "I won't have much use for it any more". I hold him tighter. It would be a long time before I saw that goofy grin of his again, and so, for now, I could do little more than keep him near. "We've both behaved rather badly these past few years" Ed says, standing back to look me in the eye.

"You're free of parliament now. This time tomorrow, I'll be a backbencher again" he goes on, sadness in his eyes subsiding gradually, "We don't have to get caught up in debates about electability, and all the rest of it any more. I say we make a promise to one another". I wipe the last tears that linger on my cheeks away and clear my throat.

"A promise to do what?" I ask. Ed smiles. It isn't a weird smile of old, nor a very broad one, but a smile it is. I find I return it before he can even answer my question.

"A promise to never, ever fall out that spectacularly again."

* * *

Downing Street enjoys a much lighter atmosphere. There are no great outbreaks of celebration, nor any signs of a party, but the the brightness in the eyes of my cousin's staff assures me that I would find no harsh words here. They don't improve my mood, though. I'd come away from my old party HQ feeling somewhat downtrodden.

Alex had succeeded in winning his seat, and I had, bizarrely, managed to rekindle my friendship with Ed. But the gloom on the faces of the party workers I passed, and the memories of victory HQ stirred up within me. I remembered well the early morning I'd spent sat up with John Prescott and Jack Straw, idly talking about our families and what we'd had for breakfast as news of our second landslide win in 2001 came in. Similar memories resurface, of the entire press department breaking into a rousing rendition of Things Can Only Get Better on the morning after our first victory in 1997.

My cousin's joy is slightly more contagious. "I think I might burst" David cries happily, practically dancing down the staircase of No. 10 towards me. I protest when he attempts to swing me around the hallway. "Good God, a majority" he beams, squeezing me in a tight embrace, "I can hardly believe it". He looks slightly more puzzled when he releases me. I watch as he darts his eyes between my face and my stomach.

I roll my eyes and unfasten my coat. His eyes continue to jump about for several seconds afterwards, before finally settling on my own. "You never mentioned that" he says simply. Before I can respond, he's pulling me in for a second squeeze.

"Hopefully, it'll be a Tory" my cousin whispers, before releasing me and dancing away down the corridor. In his head, a jolly tune played. I wouldn't carp at him today. I'd have plenty of opportunities to criticise him over the next five years. For now, I'd leave him to revel in his victory.

I don't need to be directed over to No. 11. My years in government had effectively tattooed a map of Downing Street onto my brain. I slip through one of the many intervening doors between the two houses and take a moment to find my bearings. I was very odd, to be seen and acknowledged and even greeted by Downing Street staff without being questioned, or instructed to go anywhere. I was free to roam. Or at least, I would be.

It takes me only a minute or two to reach the office of the chancellor. Behind his desk he sits, not reading one of the many policy notes that were pushed in his direction, but a book. He sets it down when I knock lightly on his office door.

With a yawn, George slowly pads across the carpet towards me and embraces me. I wouldn't tolerate this many hugs on any other occasion, but after such a long and difficult night I don't resist any of them.

"Is David still dancing?" George sleepily mumbles into my shoulder. I was far too slight to hold him up should he nod off. "It's like having Fred Astaire in the house" I mock, "Only less impressive". David's skills as a dancer were most sharpened when he'd consumed a lot of alcohol.

"Will you be moving here, then?" George asks, straightening himself up slightly, but making no attempt to detach himself from me. It was like cradling a severely oversized baby.

I hesitate before I give my answer. I'd never anticipated becoming a resident of Downing Street, certainly not like this. My life had gotten to be very peculiar indeed. There would no doubt be plenty of room for Emily, when she wasn't staying with Lionel. And I still had my home in Oxfordshire. My London flat could be rented out to someone who needed the space much more than I.

These were details I could explore later on. For now, more important matters presented themselves. Indeed, George appeared to be following a very similar train of thought. He finally detatches himself from my arms and rubs at his eyes, before asking a vital question.

"Would you like a cup of tea?".


	113. Fort William.

**1st June, 2015.**

**Nairn, Scotland.**

I'm forced awake by the tearing open of my curtains. Light pours in, and with a small shriek I bury my face in my pillow. It was like being a young girl again, wrenched from bed in time for school. I had no lessons to attend this morning, but I had planned a trip to the other side of the country. "You did tell me to wake you early" my mother says, standing by to watch as I squirm beneath the sun light.

"I do wish you'd reconsider" she sighs, picking up the empty mug I'd left on my bedside table the night before, "I've run a bath for you". My mother wasn't keen on me travelling so far. I'd be on a train, safe and secure. I wasn't nine months pregnant, I had told her, I was perfectly capable to going to Fort William myself.

I'd seen Charles only once since his defeat at the election, about three weeks ago. He confined himself to his old constituency home these days, with few visitors. It had taken a great deal of strength not to burst into tears at the very sight of him. He looked so terribly unwell. I'd urged him to go to a doctor, but with a smile he had refused. " _I'll be fine_ " he'd insisted, " _I just need sleep._ "

The herbal concoction my mother had poured into my bath did little to soothe me. I felt guilty about not seeing Charles more, but I also dreaded to think of what state I would find him in when I _did_ see him.

"You must let it soak in" my mother advises, appearing in the doorway of my bathroom quite suddenly, "It'll do your back the world of good". She'd recommended various natural remedies to me over the last month or so. I'd tried to remind her that methods she used at the time of my birth may not exactly be as fail safe in 2015. Her mollycoddling of me was made worse by the fact that I was to be a _geriatric_ mother. Dr Rose had told me that, as the years went by and women began to take their rightful places at the top of their professions, more and more children were being born to mothers over the age of forty. Alex had told me one constituent he had met who was expecting her first child aged fifty-two.

I couldn't say I was too bothered about my age. Other than my heart problems, I was entirely healthy. I'd been terribly flattered when the gynaecologist I'd visited a week ago mistook me for a thirty year old. " _Are you sure Downing Street is the best place for you?_ " my mother had asked one evening, " _Its far too hectic an environment_ ". Below stairs, it absolutely was. In the seclusion of the apartment above, however, it was positively peaceful. I'd moved in with the upmost discretion. The press had only rumours to work with. I'd kept myself to myself for the past month or so, staying inside most days and focusing on my column, which had rather kindly been extended.

" _You'll be absolutely fine_ " Charles had cheered, fondness lighting up his otherwise gaunt face, " _I don't think much of your George, but I'm glad you're happy_ ". Gordon hadn't been quite so content when I'd told him. I cared for both men in equal measure, but Charles had always been the more _supportive_ of the two.

"I'll drive you down to the station, if you'd like" my mother calls from the other room. The house was occupied by us, and so my mother had taken to following me. It was too large an estate to be alone, I could reason. Her constant insistence on _relaxation_ did irk me, however.

"I can drive myself" I insist. I hear my mother scoff.

"Your father insisted I been driven around by a chauffeur when I was carrying you" she counters, prompting me to roll my eyes. I felt brave enough to do so knowing that she was out of sight.

"We're not living in 1972, Mother" I sigh. I'd already told her that I would send her regular messages when on my train. She'd only panic otherwise. She'd even offered to accompany on my journey to Fort William, but politely I'd declined. Charles had plenty to stress about already. The presence of my somewhat overbearing, and typically _English_ , mother would do little for his mood, I suspected.

"You mustn't worry so much. I'll be absolutely _fine_ " I say, not for the first time, "I'll be in good company, anyway."

* * *

Jonathan keeps me company on the train. He was hundreds of miles away in reality, but he felt as close as ever as he speaks to me over my laptop. There were only a handful of people in the first class carriage, and so I had connected my headphones and called him.

"I've just finished the second chapter" my old aide tells me, rubbing his eyes wearily, "Why did you have to do _so much_?". I can't help but grin. He case certainly dedicated.

" _You_ wanted to write it" I remind him brightly.

"Say, do you think Charles would be willing to help?" Jonathan asks, "I need more on your earlier career". This was probably a somewhat unconventional way of writing.a biography, but I appreciated Jonathan's efforts.

"I'm not sure" I sigh, "He doesn't seem to be in a very good position at the moment". Charles had told me when last we'd met that his father had passed away just weeks before the election. He had a great deal to contend with. I could only pray that his depression was reversible.

"I've often wondered" Jonathan muses, chewing on the end of a pen, "Why do you have it in for the Lib Dems?". My smile only broadens. There had been occasions when I'd actually _forgotten_ why I disliked them so.

"There is little I hate more than grandstanding. To the Lib Dems, it's an _art_ , one that they learnt to perfect decades ago" I explain, "And they're so often _infatuated_ with Europe. They're far from an attractive option, in my opinion". Jonathan arches an eyebrow at me.

"But Charles in an exception to all of this?" he questions. I'd only ever seen Charles _grandstand_ over Iraq. We'd fallen out only once in the last twenty years, on the eve of the one million-strong march he led through London against my plan for the invasion. We'd reconciled our differences far quicker than Ed and I had.

"Charles is an exception to all of Westminster" I say, "There's not an ounce of malice in that man. He's so delightfully _human_ ". Many I knew outside Westminster regarded him as a _person_ first, rather than a politician. Indeed, the glowing opinion Emily had formed of him was derived solely from his appearances on Have I Got News For You. It was rare, for such a genuine person to make their name in public life.

"Are you sure it isn't Charles whom you should be marrying?" Jonathan chuckles. I'd never heap so much praise on Charles in his company, as his smirk would be unbearable.

"It might be a match worth considering" I joke, "George doesn't like whiskey."

* * *

It was mid-morning by the time I make it to Fort William. My mother had insisted on talking to me over the phone while I waited for my taxi at the station. She utters a less than polite word when I tell her of the SNP poster I could see taped to a nearby street light. I couldn't blame her. Even Nairn had not been exempt from the tide of Nicola Sturgeon at the election. It was _democracy_ , I supposed.

"Thank you" I smile to my driver, tucking my purse back in my bag and starting the small climb up Charles' drive. His home was a quaint one, but no less pleasant. It had suited him very these last few years, though I doubted it was much fun now that he was on his own. Now that he no longer had a constituency to serve, I'd considered asking him to come over to Nairn and live with my mother in the old family home. She'd take pride in looking after him, and he'd have someone to talk to.

I glance at my watch again the nearer I get. All curtains still seemed to be closed. Charles had been something of an early-riser in the past. Even if he was free of his parliamentary duties, it was unlike him to be idle. Gently, I knock on the front door.

And when no one comes to answer, I knock again. _10:45am._ My watch was not wrong. I press my ear to the door and listen out for footsteps. Had the curtains not been closer, I'd have peered in through the window. I glance back down the edge of the road. His car was still parked in its usual place. _Had he gone for a walk? Was he in the garden?_

I slip through the gate at the side of the house and quietly walk down into the garden. It was usually very well-tended, but now all I saw were shrivelled flowers and brown shrubs. I notice that one of the chairs at his patio table is slightly askew. When I stand closer, I see that Charles had left an empty glass on the table. Alongside it lies a familiar white card, decorated tastefully with a gold trim. _An invitation_.

On the card I see my name, and George's beneath it. I'd insisted that Charles be among the first to be invited. With the card I had sent him a small note offering to accommodate him at the family home in Oxfordshire after the wedding itself, to save him going off to a local hotel. "Charles is essentially family anyway" I'd told Nevin, "He ought to be here."

I pick up the invitation and the empty glass and make for the back door. Again, I knock, but no one comes to greet me. I'm relieved when I realise the door is unlocked.

The house is eerily quiet. I heard no creaking of floorboards upstairs, nor the faint humming of a television. All was silent. _Was he asleep? Perhaps he had gone for a walk?_

I rinse out the empty glass and set it down on the counter to dry. My heart starts to sink when I notice the collection of empty beer bottles pushed into a corner of Charles' kitchen. Other empty glasses were scattered about the place.

I set the invitation down on the table in his hallway, where I knew he would see it. He'd already promised me that he'd attend, but, with his mind occupied by a number of rather unpleasant things, I could understand how he might forget. The wedding would take place in over a month. There was time a plenty to cheer him up.

Yet my heart sinks all the more when I notice other familiar articles on the hallway table. Leaflets and letters, all offering rehabilitation at various different prices. I'd even thrown in an NHS booklet, knowing damn well how he'd grumble at the prospect of being looked after privately. I'd offered to foot whatever bill was pushed his way. So long as he got _some_ kind of help, I was content.

 _Where is he?_ I glance up the staircase and listen out for snoring. I'd be able to hear him from a mile away had he been asleep. I clench my fists. Something didn't feel right. A nervous sweat works its way onto my brow. I hadn't yet checked the sitting room. We'd shared a pot of tea there when last I'd called by. I could see the door was slightly ajar. No sound came from the other side. A cold shiver ripples through me when I touch the door handle. I attempt to shake the feeling away, with little success, and push.

The sitting room was dark. Only a tiny glimpse of sun light made it through the crack in the curtains. The television screen was blank, and even in the shadow of the room I can see that all was as it had been upon my last visit. My eyes drift downwards.

And then I freeze.

For several seconds, or even minutes, I stand totally still, feet glued to the carpet, muscles tight. I feel and think nothing, able to only stare down at what now lay across the floor. Not _what_ , in fact, but _who_.

I would told myself that he was sleeping, had it not been for the slightly contorted way in which he lay there, limbs spread in all directions, one arm draped across his unmoving chest, the other reaching out across the carpet towards nothing in particular. His eyes were closed, and his expression peaceful, but his skin tints a ghostly grey.

I allow myself another moment or two to take in the sight. And then, once I'm able to feel again, I find myself slumping against the doorframe. " _Charles_?" I hear myself whisper. I wait for him to leap up, full of energy, kind smile spread across his face. But he doesn't move.

I manage to call out to him a second time before my voice starts to fail me. And when it does, I sink down to my knees, down beside him, head bowed. "Charles?" I choke, eyes blurring. I reach out and gently place a hand against his cheek. He was cold. Completely, _totally_ cold.

I'm unsure of what exactly happened in the ten minutes that follow before I myself am found. I didn't know what to do, or who to call. All I can do is hold him close, hoping with all I had that my tears and cries would somehow _wake him up_. Even when I hear another enter the house via the back door, I don't leave him. _I wouldn't leave him_.

I couldn't bear the thought of him being alone when he passed, so I wouldn't abandon him now. I try and tell him I'm sorry, but words fail me. I have only my thoughts and my tears. _Why didn't I visit yesterday? Why didn't I call earlier? Why wasn't I a better friend?_

A neighbour comes in shortly afterwards. I hear only mumbling as they call for the police, and feel barely anything at all when they put their hand on my shoulder. They try to tell me to let him go, but I don't listen. _I can't listen_. I'd only come with the intention of enjoying a cup of tea, buoyant after a good, if rather confused, month. Now I found myself in a position of indescribable pain.

For twenty years I had relied on Charles. Now, it seemed, I would have to learn to get on without him 

* * *

I'd stay in Scotland until I felt calm enough to return to England. Three days had passed since my trip to Fort William, for much of those three days I had stayed inside, curled up on my bed, shutting the world out. I thought I'd composed myself rather well, until I caught a glimpse of the tributes paid to Charles in the Commons. My mother had sought to comfort me with tea, and I was grateful really. I would have found greater comfort in the bottle of whiskey I'd fished out from one of the many cabinets below stairs, but my mother had confiscated. I knew she was right. I'd felt sorry to have even _thought_ about drinking afterwards. _Charles deserved better_.

"You need fresh air, dear" my mother says, lifting the blankets from me and planting a tea cup in my hand, "Why don't you go and sit out on the patio?". Groggily, I sip at my tea. Seeing such an awful sight had left me feeling rather rough.

"I've called in reinforcements" my mother goes on, gesturing for me to get out of bed. She lays a pair of incredibly fluffy slippers at my feet and opens the bedroom door, standing expectantly beside it, waiting for me to take my tea and get out of there for a change. Lord knew who my mother had summoned to rescue me from my thoughts. George was caught up in affairs in London, and my old parliamentary colleagues were battling their own crises in the ongoing Labour leadership contest. The only Scot I could imagine her turning to was the one I find sat at my patio table, coffee in hand.

"Gordon" I greet, attempting a smile. The man shifts slightly in his seat and gives me a small nod. "Liz" he replies, "I was worried I wouldn't see you". I'd question my mother for dragging him out to Nairn later. For now, at least, I'd indulge her and have a chat. With Charles now gone, Gordon was my next best confidante.

"Yes, well" I sigh, toying with the fine handle of my tea cup, "I've rather a lot on my mind, lately". Gordon lowers his mug and inches closer to me. Even before he opens his mouth, I know what he is going to say, allowing me another moment or two to bolster my composure.

"I'm terribly sorry about, Charles" Gordon speaks in a hushed tone, giving me a well-meaning pat on the forearm, "He was a brilliant man, truly". Watching the tributes offered by the Commons, I'd spotted MPs from all parties dabbing at their tears with their handkerchiefs. I thought it a great testimony to Charles, to see so many from so many backgrounds united in their grief.

"He _was_ brilliant" I exhale, swallowing hard before I make my reply, "Very brilliant indeed". I get the impression Gordon is keen to move our conversation on from Charles, most probably to spare my feelings. I knew the longer I talked about him, the more upset I would become, and so contentedly I allow Gordon to change tact.

"How is life in the mad house?" Gordon asks, "No doubt they're all preparing for the budget". Downing Street had indeed been rather busy when I'd left it. I'd been looking forward to telling Charles all about it.

"It's odd, really, living in a house where an armoured car is required should any one run out of milk" I say, "I stay in the flat above the shop, for the most part. It's alright, really". Gordon arches an eyebrow at me, visibly sceptical. My mother wasn't convinced it was the right environment for me. I was determined to defy them. One month in, and aside from the loss of Charles, I was _happy_. As someone recently freed from office and seeking privacy, Downing Street seemed an apt place to live.

"Do you not miss your freedom?" Gordon asks. It was a reasonable question. In reality, I wasn't entirely trapped. No one would stop me if I were to walk out of the building and into the wilderness of the city. They might advise me against it, or offer a guard of some sort, but no one would _stop_ me.

"It's not Guantanamo" I remark with a small smile, "Besides, it's good to be _tucked away_ , after so long in the spotlight". My lack of public appearances left the press with mere speculation. Arguably, that was worse, but I delighted in watching them guess. Even my new allies at The Telegraph were at a loss. What was I up to these days? What exactly was my business in Downing Street? Was I really just getting fat?

"The wedding still going ahead, I take it?" Gordon mumbles. I allow myself an amused grin and nod. For one so reluctant, he'd certainly sent his response to my invite quick enough.

"It's not as though I'm asking _you_ to give me away" I say, "I just want you to be there, Gordon". It would be terribly odd, to make such a step without Charles near. I'd miss out on so many wonderful anecdotes at the reception afterwards. I try to stop myself from thinking too much on such things before I start to well up.

"You've always surprised me, Liz" Gordon muses, leaning back in his seat and glancing out across the lawn, "In a variety of ways". I'd never anticipated ending up here. Then again, I wasn't sure what exactly I wanted my future to be when I was a teenager. I had my ambitions, naturally, but never the foresight to think ahead. I didn't care. My circumstances were admittedly rather odd, but were they bad? Was I sorry to have ended up here?

"I like to keep people on their toes" I joke, content knowing that I at least had the approval of Charles in all this, "There's no fun in being predictable."


	114. A Rather Important Day.

**22nd July, 2015.**

**Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

The weeks had flown by. Charles was buried, and I found myself able to think of him without sadness. We'd had many a happy and eventful time together. I was content in the knowledge that, despite the circumstances in which he'd died, we had enjoyed each other's company for so long. Besides, I knew Charles would rather I be cheerful, or at least as cheerful as I could be. He'd only insist that I have a stiff glass of whiskey otherwise.

There would be no opportunity for whiskey in the next few days. Or months, in reality. I'd been itching for a glass or two on occasion, but I'd managed to restrain myself. It was all for very good reasons, of course. Dr Rose, increasingly present after I invited her to stay in Oxfordshire for a few weeks, had told me most plainly what the consequences of drinking might be. Six months, and another three to go. I could perhaps in the odd glass after that, to keep myself going.

I had another momentous occasion to conquer first. Helena had spent much of the evening fussing about the flowers in the church, returning only once she'd managed to get her hands on three additional 'back-up' dresses, should anything happen to my chosen one. I'm keen to remind myself that it wasn't strictly my idea to let her stay with me before the big day. It had been at the suggestion of my mother that I had invited her here. My mother, of course, also stayed with me. George would spend the night with my other relatives in the family residence.

I doubted many were celebrating, as they might have done in their younger years. I certainly wasn't. I had curled up onto my couch and had a flick through today's edition of The Telegraph. Alongside a particularly complimentary piece about Alex's maiden speech in the Commons I spotted a headline bearing my name. _NELSON TO JOIN HOUSE OF LORDS_. I had been told to expect that. Parliament had shut its doors for the summer only yesterday, but already it had been decided that, come September, it would allow me inside once more once it reopened. When first David had told me that he intended to recommend my name to The Queen, I'd been sceptical. I'd left the Commons in my desire for peace. I had not anticipated walking from one House and into another.

Peers have no strict responsibilities, Peter Mandelson had helpfully pointed out to me. No longer would I be bogged down by my status as an independent, or bored by mundane constituency work. In the Lords, I was offered the freedom I'd never been granted as an MP. And so a baroness I was to become.

"Oh, do leave it, Alex" I hear Isaac speak from the armchair nearby, "No one does homework on the first day of their holiday". Alex glances over his spectacles at him and sighs, lowering the pen he had been chewing on.

"I still have constituents to look after" he says, "I met a rather charming Syrian girl this morning. I'm writing a letter for her". I smile softly. It made me feel incredibly proud whenever Alex talked about his work. He'd taken to it all much better than I had.

"Not that blonde woman who propositioned you?" Isaac replies cheekily. I notice Alex winces at the mention of it. A number of younger female, and indeed male, constituents had taken to visiting Alex's surgeries solely with the intention of asking him out. In his awkwardness, he'd managed to agree to have drinks with a few of them.

"No, no. This girl was much nicer" Alex answers, "She was telling me about her family. I was quite moved by what she told me". I lower my newspaper and listen intently. Syria very often dominated headlines these days, and for all the wrong reasons. I doubted the girl Alex spoke of had many happy stories to tell.

"Her family are trapped in the country, apparently" Alex goes on, expression hardening, "She was lucky enough to fly out here before things got too bad in her town. She came over with an aunt, but sadly she died within weeks of arriving here". I suspected this girl was only young. I couldn't quite imagine what it was like, to experience so much at such a young age, to find oneself in an entirely unknown country too.

"Where is she now?" I ask. Alex sighs sadly and glances down at the beginnings of the letter he writes. I could only pray that he would be of greater help to this poor Syrian girl than I was to the Campion family all those years.

"Staying in some hostel or other, I gather. It's hardly ideal" Alex tells me, "I'm sorry to depress you on the eve of the big occasion, but it's been on my mind all day". It infuriated me beyond words whenever I saw or heard Alex labelled as cold, or unfeeling, or uncaring. Certain ex-colleagues of mine delighted in branding the people of his party in such ways. Any one who thought Alex capable of even the tiniest ounce of malice didn't know him in the slightest. He was much warmer than I had been, without a doubt.

"Don't be sorry. You should invite her here for a cup of tea, if she's willing" I propose, "I'm afraid I don't have the number of the Foreign Secretary". The latter suggestion was rather tongue-in-cheek, but I sincerely meant the former. I wouldn't have Alex abandon this particular case. There would be so many just like that poor girl who wouldn't get the chance.

"Could you not wield your newfound powers as a peer of the realm?" Isaac poses with a wink. He turns his attention to his book again, the faintest hint of disapproval in his eye. I can't help but grin. "You don't at all approve of the Lords, do you?" I ask him, "It's odd. Paddy Ashdown seems to adore his peerage". Michael Heseltine had promised to save a seat for me many years ago. Unelected or not, it would be terribly rude of me to pass on an opportunity to take that seat, wouldn't it?

"You will be keeping your own name I hope, Mother" Alex speaks hopefully, eyes on his promised letter as he scratches away with his pen, "Baroness Nelson sounds so much better than the alternative". I'd never taken Lionel's surname when I'd married him. It had never occurred to me to do otherwise, really. I was too proud of my own surname.

"I've done very well indeed with my name" I affirm, head held high, "Besides, I've enough baggage of my own without adopting that name". George's name wasn't quite as toxic as it had been a few months ago, but I still wasn't at all keen on taking it. He'd enjoyed quite the rise since the election. It did, at least for now, appear that he would find himself in No. 10 before too long.

"Liz!" my mother cries, bursting into the sitting room with a pale face, "It's almost ten o'clock!". I frown, eyes darting from her to the clock on the mantelpiece.

"Right" I say, "Is there a television programme you'd like to watch on at ten?". My mother sighs heavily and approaches me, seizing the newspaper resting on my lap and tucking it under her arm. "You promised me you'd start going to bed earlier" she complains, "You need all the rest you can get, especially tonight". Inviting my mother to stay had also been something of a mistake. She hadn't stopped fussing since she'd arrived. I would have been grateful, had she not been so irritating.

"I don't think staying up past ten will exhaust me" I insist, determined to resist her just this once. I had at least stuck to using the odd herbal concoction she told me to use in baths, though only because Dr Rose told me that such things did actually serve a purpose.

"You might do well to actually listen to my advise, darling" my mother snaps. Isaac and Alex can only watch in silence. It was not an unusual spectacle, even for someone my age. Mothers always scolded their more unruly children.

"Are you going to advise me on my wedding night too?" I poke, "Lie back and think of England?". I was quite convinced that such 'advice' had been offered to my mother before she married my father. She was painfully English at times.

"Oh, but you are silly" my mother mutters, stalking away and out of the sitting room. I hear her mumbling to herself as she scales the stairs. She'd be in a much happier mood tomorrow morning. I'd already seen her equip her handbag with another silken handkerchief for her to weep into.

"Do the press know about the wedding?" Isaac asks curiously. I couldn't imagine Henley-on-Thames attracting too much attention. David had already assured me that he'd have one of his ministers announce something for the press to jump on. The only journalists I intended to see tomorrow were those in my family and Lionel.

"I doubt it" I sigh, relieved more than anything, "If they do, I'll be in something of a pickle. I could really do without a demonstration outside the church."

* * *

I wake at five o'clock in the morning. My mother insisted that I get plenty of sleep, yet I found her to be very supportive when Helena roused me from my sleep so early. You need plenty of time to get ready, she'd said, pulling me along into the bathroom for yet another herbal soak. I wasn't entirely sure a five o'clock start was logical, given that the service was not due to take place until eleven.

"You should have chosen Blair to give you away" Helena says, idly toying with my hair, "It would have impressed the Americans". I'm tempted to tell her that, as Defence Secretary, I'd already spent too much of my life trying to please Americans, but decide against it. This was, after all, supposed to be a day of happiness.

"Imagine Gordon's face" I smile gleefully, greatly amused by the thought of Gordon snarling as Tony leads me along the aisle. Rather than risk a riot, I'd decided to play safe and have my brother give me away. It had made me slightly sad to think that I wouldn't be entering church on the arm of my father, but I liked to think he would watch on regardless, flanked by an old friend by the name of Thatcher, who would no doubt spend much of the service deciding which guest she hated most.

"I must say, Alex looks very dapper" Helena goes on, commenting on a suit I had yet to see, "Isaac looked rather flushed". She smirks to herself, whilst my mother shakes her head.

"I'm still at a loss as to why you didn't tell me" she says, new to the knowledge that Alex's 'Jewish friend' was considerably more than a friend. I knew for a fact that she had been told, but I don't see fit to quarrel with her today.

"I wonder if Isaac be willing to convert" my mother ponders, to herself more than anyone. I hear myself snort. My mother was in no way prejudiced, but she was quite insistent that our family be kept Catholic. George had already deserted the Church of England because of her nagging.

"I don't want you pressuring him on the subject today" I warn softly, "I'd prefer it everyone remained _cheerful_ ". I'd already given Nevin a stern talking to. He wasn't at all content to let Isaac's poor father run the family business. Now that he had fully recovered from his depression, and proven himself to be responsible, he wanted it _back_.

"I'd love to know why you aren't going on honeymoon" Helena says, changing subject entirely, "I'd love an excuse to _get away_ ". That sort of thing didn't appeal to be anymore. We both had much to be getting on with _here_. As inviting as a week away in some tropical paradise might sound, it was unnecessary at my age.

"I do actually have something planned in August" I tell my sister, mentally running through my calendar, "Not that I've told George yet". He'd only advise me against it. And I had, _technically_ , said that I wouldn't be going to this particular part of the world until next year.

"I'm going to America" I smile, more to myself than any one. It had been far too long since I'd been in the states. And with the election brewing, I was keen to cross the pond and do my bit. The Republican race was already proving, well, _odd_. "Just for the odd function or two, you understand. I'm not doing any proper campaigning" I add, keen to make my case plain before my mother tore it apart, "I'll make a holiday of it. Take the children with me". They hadn't had a family holiday last August. A week or two in New York would be fair, wouldn't it?

"I'm not sure I approve of that" my mother judges, "And I doubt George will either". I gently climb out of the bath and into the robe she holds out for me. "That's why you won't tell him. Not _today_ , anyway" I say, allowing myself to be pulled along into the bedroom again by Helena so my hair could be dried, "I won't have him worrying". I'm sat down on the side of my bed as Helena scrambles about for a hairdryer. I hear a loud sniff from my mother as she crosses into the bedroom and glance up to see her dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a scrap of silk. They were the first of what were bound to be many tears.

"I can't quite believe this is happening, you know" she weeps, blue eyes wrinkling, "I need a moment to gather myself". She was terribly sentimental, especially where weddings were concerned. A number of guests at my brother's wedding had approached her to offer her tissues, concerned that she was genuinely upset.

"It's been quite the journey, I think we can all agree" Helena sighs, gently running the bristles of a brush through my hair, "If I've learnt anything at all these last twenty years, it's this". I arch an eyebrow at her.

"What?" I ask. She smirks.

"They should hire me as a pollster" she mutters on. I roll my eyes and ask again. " _What_?". I begin to suspect that her good mood originates only from the knowledge that her predictions to me had turned out to be very accurate indeed.

"I'm almost always proven right."


	115. New Fights.

**3rd January, 2016.**

**Derry, New Hampshire.**

It was the new year. Three days in, and already I had jetted off to the US. George didn't mind. He was far too distracted by other things. He hadn't been too impressed by my holiday to New York at the end of August, however, especially when it ended with a rather unexpected arrival. Looking back, I thought it awfully lucky that I'd recruited the ever-helpful Dr Rose to accompany myself and the children on our break, leaving George to stew in his worry at home. His worry was well placed.

I had sat quite contentedly in a particularly cosy house in one of New York's more affluent areas. Fundraisers in the US were just like those in Britain, with casual conversation and far too many glasses of champagne. I'd dutifully stuck to my orange juice, of course. Our hosts had offered me tea, but I knew better than to accept. Tea never quite tasted right here. The poor quality of tea, however, proved to be the least of my problems, as, with Hillary and Bill enthusiastically discussing their plans on my left, I suddenly felt a sharp pain ripple through my abdomen. Within hours, under the watchful eye of Dr Rose, a remarkably small bundle was gently being placed in my arms.

"Where is she?" I ask, eyes on the screen of my laptop as I stir my mug casually. This time, I'd made sure I had proper British tea bags with me. I wouldn't be able to appear on stage without a strong brew, after all.

The man who chats away to me from England, every bit as bemused by this technology as I, moves off screen momentarily. Inane gargling can be heard only faintly, soon matched by a face when a considerably larger bundle is placed down in view of the camera.

"She's certainly getting stronger" George says, holding the child close. I'd been required to stay in New York slightly longer than anticipated after the bundle's unplanned arrival. So small was she, her entry into the world a good month and a half too soon, that she needed regular monitoring. My mother, naturally, had almost panicked herself into a coma.

"How are things over there?" I ask. All seemed to be quiet in London. I suspected most commentators and public figures were making the most of their peace while it lasted. Within months, a very important debate would begin, about a less than unifying subject. _Europe_.

"I thought David was going to have a break down the other day" George sighs, rubbing at his tired eyes, "He made the mistake of reading the Express again". The pity I had come to feel for my cousin over the last few months felt quite alien to me. He didn't _need_ to have a referendum, but had saddled himself with one anyway. I was still conflicted on the issue, but had other things to prioritise for now.

"I do wish you were _here_ " George goes on, straightening the blanket he wraps around the small child resting on his knee, "It's all becoming something of a balancing act". I'd enlisted the help of my mother before flying over. George had an extremely stressful job to contend with. There were less imposing nannies than my mother, without a doubt, but I trusted her. From his many frustration-fuelled messages to me over last few years, I gathered he wasn't too appreciative of my mother's near-constant gossiping.

"I'll be home tomorrow evening, at the latest" I remind him, eyes focusing on the bundle more than anything else. She really was a most beautiful thing with very pale skin, small brown eyes set nicely in her delightfully round face. "I'm sure Alex would be happy to help, should you need him" I suggest. Alex doted on the child more than any one. He'd rolled his eyes when my mother had handed a variety of adoption pamphlets to him.

"He's too busy organising that refugee campaign of his" George says with a small smile, "He's been lobbying your brother to sell the family home and offer its rooms to refugees". I could not imagine Nevin being a great fan of that idea. The Oxfordshire estate was a little too big for Nevin and his family, but, with other relatives relying on it for short stays in the county, most of its bedrooms were used anyway. It would, perhaps, make more sense for _my_ Oxfordshire home to be given up for refugees. I too used the family estate as a short retreat, with most of my time spent in Downing Street. I make a mental note to remind Alex of my idea later, before looking back to George.

"I think my brother is too absorbed in his fight with the Freidman family to notice" I breathe, rubbing my temple as I speak. Both America and Downing Street did provide a refuge for me to escape the madness of Nevin's efforts to claw back his role in the family business. More and more shares he had got his hands on. "Lord knows where he finds the money for it all" I add, quite bored of the entire affair, "He's only a _councillor_."

"He was telling me about some new tax arrangement of his" George informs me, "I suppose that benefits his bank account somewhat". I lift my head, suddenly very interested again.

"That sounds very suspicious" I say with narrowed eyes, "I do hope he knows what he's doing". Discovering some new tax dodge would not be of benefit to my brother in the long run, especially if anyone outside the family was to learn of it. My father would have slapped him silly if he were alive.

"Still, I should go" I say, glancing around the otherwise empty room, the murmuring of a large audience in the hall beyond only faint from where I sat. "Tell them to vote Trump" George calls with a grin. With a laugh I say goodbye, and give a little wave to the small bundle on his knee. As soon as I close the laptop, a blue-clad staffer enters the room.

"When you're ready, Lady Nelson" they say, standing beside an open door. _Lady Nelson_. I still wasn't quite used to that. I'd been sworn into the Lords alongside William Hague, another ex-MP seeking retirement on the cosy red benches of a chamber _absurdly_ grand. There had been some speculation as to where I'd _sit_ once I was sworn in. From one side, I was being watched by Peter Mandelson, and on the other, Michael Heseltine. I'd join neither. The crossbenches made for a much better spot.

"We're heading to Ohio tomorrow" Bill Clinton tells me, joining me as I wait in the corridor just outside the hall. I brush the creases from my dress and rest a hand on my stomach. I was _flat_ again. I'd had to do quite a bit of jogging to get my skin to return to normal. I'd not been able to shed it all. I wasn't sure I wanted to. The press had forever pointed out how _thin_ I was. I was increasingly fond of the idea of allowing myself to put on a few pounds.

"I'm afraid I won't be joining you" I say, "I'm needed at home". Bill smiles.

"How is your little girl?" he asks, "I'm sorry, I've forgotten her name". Now I smile. It was an old-fashioned name, but a suitably sweet one. Dr Rose's middle name, I'd learnt. It had felt most appropriate, so much so that I'd actually made the doctor a godmother.

" _Edith_ " I tell Bill. His lips curve upwards in fondness. He'd already told me of what a delightful face she had, and that she did. I was starting to feel quite keen to get home now.

"Perhaps I ought to bring her with me when next I visit" I jest, "She's bound to be ten times more coherent than Donald Trump". Bill bows his head, bemusement evident in his old eyes.

"I still can't believe that man" he confesses, "And I thought that old bearded guy in your country was _mad_ ". It was enough to give a person a very large headache. Donald Trump, whom words failed to describe, had somehow found himself a key player in the race for the American presidency. The Iowa caucuses were now less than a month away, but already it looked as though Trump was performing better than expected.

And then there was _Jeremy Corbyn_. I'd said in an interview shortly before the end of the Labour leadership content that I rather admired Corbyn. He was not a faithful party man by any means, but I thought his status as an infamous rebel was, as irritating as he had been in government, to his credit. _Then he had actually been elected_. I'd praised him, yes, but never, no matter how much Peter and I bet on it, would I have anticipated him leading the Labour Party. A collective bout of insanity, driven by a hatred on the left for anything even vaguely similar to New Labour, had gripped the people of my own side. I'd been told that the members of my old constituency Labour Party in Oxfordshire had most emphatically backed Corbyn.

"Politics was never this _strange_ when I was younger" I say, feeling more like an old woman with every word, "Let's hope things return to normal this year". I glance to my right as a familiar figure emerges from a nearby doorway. She sports short blonde hair and a pale pantsuit, a wide grin on her pale face. "Are you ready?" Hillary asks. Bill and I look to one another before nodding.

And so up the steps and into the hall we go. I didn't need notes. Rallies, I had come to discover, weren't at all stage-managed. There was no script to follow, only ideas to put forward to one's adoring fans. That was something else I'd discovered. _Americans were far more excitable than Britons_.

As much is evident when the three of us emerge on the platform provided, amid roars one might be used to hearing a premier league football match. They were enthusiastic, _thrilled_ before anyone had even spoke a word. Banners with slogans like 'Hill yes' were waved about in all directions, the crowd around us an incredibly loud sea of various shades of blue.

As happy as I would be to get home, I would certainly make the most of this arena. In the Commons, people jeered at one another. In the Lords, people fell asleep. A little bit of _spirit_ would be of great benefit to me.

 

Heathrow was, unsurprisingly, teeming with people when my plane landed. The vast number of people around me did give me the perfect cover, however. I'd had an early start and a long flight. I wasn't really in the mood for questions.

Alex meets me after ten minutes or so of waiting. He could easily have passed for an Oxbridge academic, with his tastefully tweed jacket and his slim tie, round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. Supposedly, he was considered rather a _cool_ MP, if it was possible for such a thing to exist.

"Are you alright, darling?" I ask, brows furrowing in concern, "You look dreadfully pale". Alex hauls my bags into the back of a waiting taxi.

"Actually, I heard something rather disturbing this morning" he tells me. We climb into the back of the cab and give our respective directions. Alex could be dropped off at the Commons on my way back to Downing Street. Any appearance by Alex at No. 11 would prompt ridiculous speculation from the press that he was going to be given a job. _Nepotism_ didn't wash, naturally.

"You haven't been arguing with blood Jacob Rees-Mogg about the refugees again, have you?" I question. Joining the Lords meant I was once again privy to parliamentary gossip. It had been mentioned to be by Michael Heseltine that Alex had more friends on the Labour benches than his own. Arguments with his Conservative colleagues were likely.

"No, no, it was nothing like that. It was regarding Europe actually" he explains, and already I start to dread what he is about to tell me, "I overheard two other backbenchers chatting in the bar. They were talking about the referendum, and what would happen, should the people vote to remain". Europe was the most poisonous of subjects for the Conservatives, and always had been. Alex had inherited only a fraction of my Eurospecticism, favouring Lionel's open approach to the EU instead. I might have been undecided, but he certaintly wasn't.

"They said they'd start gathering signatures" Alex goes on, face whitening all the more, "For a _coup_ ". I wasn't surprised. Tory backbenchers, of a certain political persuasion, were notoriously treacherous bastards, in the words of my father. "The right-wing have been trying to nail David for years" I seek to reassure my son, "He led them to a majority. They wouldn't _dare_ ". _Except they would dare_. Alex knew better than to accept my hollow words.

"I think they mean it this time" Alex mumbles, visibly frightened by the prospect, "They mention George too". My move into Downing Street had subjected me to the inner conflicts of the Tory Party, but I usually avoided much of their squabbling. I tended to ignore the mutinous murmurings of George's rivals. They couldn't _seriously_ topple him, could they?

"I'm afraid your party is rather like that" i comment, remembering well the rebellion and back-stabbing of John Major's tenure. Alex manages a small smile and arches an eyebrow at me. "Whereas Labour are a perfect picture of unity" he remarks. I grin.

"Thankfully, I no longer sit with them" I reply, increasingly proud of my decision to abandon ship, "So long as my old favourites aren't caught up in the fight, I'm content". Andy seemed to be the only old colleague of mine who was completely willing to give Corbyn a decent stab at leadership. He always was a far softer character than I. I'd admire him for it, had I not been so frustrated by Corbyn.

"You'll be fine" I say, offering my son another reassuring smile, "David is quite capable of defending himself". _But what chance did he have of defending himself against a knife from behind?_ Europe had already destroyed a number of his predecessors. And if David was booted out, it was very likely George would be too. I shake these thoughts from my mind before they start to consume me. Clearly Alex was right to be worried. This was definitely concerning.

"I do hope you're having more success in the US" Alex says, somewhat miserably.

"We're optimistic" I say, "Though I suspect the election will be just as contentious as the referendum". Alex runs his eyes, his head sinking into his hands. We were now four days into the new year and already the political gravity of 2016 was threatening to pull him down.

"What a _fun_ year it's going to be" he chirps sarcastically. I chuckle, but find little humour in the situation.

" _Fun_ " I repeat, "But perhaps a little hellish."


	116. The European Question.

**10th January, 2016.**

**Houses of Parliament, London.**

" _Latin lessons with your governess? Morning rides across the estate? Fox hunting? Drinking champagne with the aristocracy?_ ". The picture Jonathan painted of my childhood was comically fanciful. I may have enjoyed the odd flute of champagne in my teenage years, but ponies and Latin were as alien to me as they were to Jonathan. "If you won't be serious" I joke, "I won't help you at all."

I sit back in my chair, comfortable in a new office, Edith resting on my knee. Both of us would appreciate a change of scenery. George had disappeared into his study shortly after breakfast, so I'd decided to be productive and get some work done. I had no constituency work to bother with, but there was still the odd job I could crack on with. I wasn't too bothered if the press caught me as I entered the building, even if they would insist that my taking Edith to work was some how _bad_.

"I'm just trying to fill in a few details in the earlier chapters" Jonathan says, still scribbling away at his notebook. I wanted to believe that Jonathan was completely on top of his project, but the folder in which he kept his drafts was far from organised. "I was wondering whether I might-" Jonathan begins, before cutting himself off, "No, no, I _can't_ ask about that". He draws a thin cross through one line of his notebook and shakes his head.

"Out with it" I push plainly. Jonathan hesitates before he asks his question. I already assume it doesn't concern a political issue.

"If it's not too personal a subject" he poses quietly, "In the early days, how exactly did you balance Alex with your career?". He leaps in to defend himself before I can even open my mouth. He needn't have bothered, but I let him continue.

"I just think it might be an interesting detail, as a hurdle you've had to overcome" he says. I could see how he might bend it into some inspirational story about how I'd struggled as a young mother. It would be inspirational, had I not had so much _help_. I had been lucky in that I had the means to support myself. One of the few struggles in my first pregnancy had been the daunting task of telling my family.

_"I don't think he'll react as you think he will". Nevin does his best to reassure me, but my nerves are no less frail. I pace about, conscious of making too much noise in case I disturbed the man hidden away in the study before me. I'd have to disturb him at some point. "He's a Catholic" I exhale, stress building._

_"I'm a Catholic, and I'm not at all bothered" my brother says, eyes darting only briefly to my stomach. I'd received the odd crude joke from him, but nothing hurtful. My mother was sworn to secrecy, though I was convinced she'd told Helena. My little sister had developed a fondness for size jokes, forever commenting on how my dresses appeared to be tightening about my middle. I'd slap her if I weren't so frightened of retaliation from my mother._

_"Just tell him" Nevin urges, practically pushing me towards the study door, "At least you're engaged". I wondered if Nevin would be so casual if he were placed in a similar situation. Given his fondness for beautiful women, I wouldn't be surprised if he did end up as stuck as I._

_"Fine" I concede, reaching forward for the door knob. I take a deep breath before I step inside. I am twenty-two, I remind myself, I am not a child. Yet he was still my father. He would expect better of me. He'd think me a fool._

_Wouldn't he?_

Edith gargles from where she sits, entirely at peace, on my knee. Whatever my father's reaction to the predicament I found myself in in 1994, I knew he'd have adored Edith. "He was, shockingly, okay with it" I tell Jonathan, aware that I was now keeping him in suspense, "He saw that twenty-two was rather a young age for children, but he was surprisingly supportive". My old advisor smiles.

"Did it make a difference to any of your colleagues?" Jonathan queries. Edith had certainly made an impact, and all the right ways. Even Ken Clarke had softened up enough to fuss about her.

"I can't say it did, actually" I say, "One or two disapproving shakes of the head from the older backbenchers, perhaps, but nothing untoward". Jonathan turns a page of his notebook. Instinctively, I sit up a little more in my chair. The turning of a new page almost always meant he was moving on to a new subject. How he would consolidate my many anecdotes and musings into a coherent book, I did not know.

"Now, _Europe_ " Jonathan beams. I blink hard at him. I seemed unable to avoid the subject of late. If the subject dominated Westminster this early, I couldn't bear to think what the mood of the House would be come referendum day, which was as yet undecided.

"Must we go there?" I complain, looking down at Edith as she starts to nod off. It was probably wise. How I wished I could fall asleep whenever Europe was mentioned.

"It's current" Jonathan insists, pen at the ready. With a deep sigh, I allow the subject to occupy mind for a minute or two.

_"Well I'm certainly glad that's over". David Miliband leans forward in his seat and rests his head in his hands. We were allowed a minute or two to relax whilst we waited for the others to join us as the cabinet table. Gordon takes his own seat and sighs. It had been a long debate, with quite a few angry words thrown about, most of them coming from the benches opposite._

_"Cheer up, Liz" Hilary Benn chuckles, noting the frustration etched on my face. I didn't have the energy to pretend otherwise. It was 2008, and I was beyond tired. If the banking crisis I had to contend with hadn't already drained me, Europe had reared its ugly head again._

_"I've never seen anyone look quite so sad when voting" Jacqui Smith comments. I was glad they found it amusing. The Lisbon Treaty did little to endear itself to me. All I saw was another attempt to get Britain to sidle ever close to the continent. I was all for cooperation, but a line had to be drawn somewhere._

_"At least the Irish agree with me" I mumble sleepily. I wasn't sure it was wise to complain when sat next to Gordon, but I was too fed up to care. The Tories had, rather sensibly, attempted to delay the ratification of the treaty for a good four months. Our side had rejected that, and now awaited royal assent from Her Majesty._

_"I suppose you're in favour of a referendum on it all" Miliband assesses. The opportunity for a referendum had come earlier in the year, when my cousin had first put the idea forward. Protests had been led in support of such a thing, yet we went without one._

_"Am I in favour of giving the people a say on something that has changed dramatically since they were first asked in '75?" I grumble, the tiredness within me bringing out my pathetically embittered eurosceptic side, "Yes I am."_

_"You'd go further, then?" Jack Straw asks with raised eyebrows, "Have not a referendum on the Lisbon Treaty, but the EU all together?". There is silence around the cabinet table as my colleagues wait for an answer. They knew I'd calm down and stop whinging by tomorrow._

_"Perhaps I would" I say, contemplating the idea in my head. It wouldn't get much support on my side of the House, but it was worth considering, surely?_

_Beside me, I hear Gordon mutter to himself. With narrowed eyes he looks to me. "You know which side of the House you ought to sit on, then."_

I'd forgiven Gordon for his many needling comments towards me back then. On particularly dark days, I assumed him to be too depressed to really know what it was he was saying.

Jonathan's expression darkens most suddenly. It find it reminds me of the one I saw Alex adopt whenever the infamous European question was brought up in his earshot. A look of _dread_. I could see how my, now slightly _mellowed_ , eurospecticism made such demonstrations of worry _alien_ to me. I knew I'd be more inclined to panic once I'd chosen a side.

"I can't say I'm looking forward to it, you know" Jonathan murmurs, "I can feel something _very bad indeed_ coming". I dismiss whatever conflict exists in my own mind and feign a smile.

"Don't be silly" I say. Everyone seemed to be predicting _doom and gloom_ , long before the damn thing had even started. The more I thought on the upcoming referendum, then more I began to recall the last one. The _Scottish question_ had been answered, but the campaign by which we'd won had been less than positive. The independence referendum had been rather bruising for many. Bruising and _stressful_. The European question wouldn't be settled so divisively, would it?

* * *

My cousin's wife had rather kindly called by early in the afternoon to take little Edith home, giving me the opportunity to listen in to the day's debate in the Lords. Remarkably, I'd managed to avoid talking about Europe in my meeting with Peter afterwards.

Now, I was home again, arriving at the back door as per. I wasn't an attention-seeker, after all. A handul of cabinet ministers and staff shuffle along the downstairs corridors of No. 10 when I enter the building. Briefing notes tucked under their arms, they chat casually about theit meeting. It seemed they had discussed welfare, _not that I was listening in_. As I reach the intervening door to No. 11, I hear raised voices. I knew the building well enough to know that they didn't come from the offices of the press officers, prone to argument in my day, but from a slightly smaller meeting room just down the corridor.

I'd been lucky enough to witness only a handful of arguments since moving in to Downing Street. They were quite exciting. Too many during my time in government had ended with fist fighting. The man who storms from the meeting room seconds later looks as though he wants does indeed want to punch something. Or _someone_.

" _Fucking hell_ " a red-faced Iain Duncan Smith growls, too absorbed in his anger to notice me as I watch him bolt in the direction of the door. I linger long enough to hear his car door slam at the back of the building. Curiosity overpowers me, and so I peer around the door of the meeting room and look for any inhabitants.

"Liz" David nods, gathering his things together with a somewhat strained expression, "You've just missed the fun". His other colleagues had already left, it seemed, perhaps keen to avoid the wrath of Duncan Smith. "What on earth is going on?" I ask. David sags slightly where he stands. I'd not seen him so stressed since the time of the independence referendum.

"There was an argument, essentially" my cousin informs me wearily, "I've told George to behave himself when Iain is about, but he doesn't seem to learn."

" _George_  caused it?" I splutter slightly. I'd spent so much time with George the _person_ , rather than the politician, that I'd forgotten what he might be like in the presence of his colleagues.

"He can be quite _mean_ , sometimes" David tells me, "Especially if he realises the person he's up against isn't as, let's say, _intellectually gifted_ as he". I'd been witness to George's more cocky form only occasionally in the Commons. He adopted an arrogance at the dispatch box that he never seemed to take home with him. I often suspected the public would like him much more if they were able to see him in private.

"So long as they weren't arguing over bloody Europe" I grumble. Perhaps I'd have words with George later. I didn't know Duncan Smith's offence, but I'd caution him against being too heavy-handed with his colleagues. Such behaviour created _enemies_ , as colleagues of my own in the New Labour days had discovered.

"For once, we stayed clear of the subject" David says, shutting the meeting room door behind him and walking beside me along the corridor, "George has started planning for his budget. Iain was less than impressed with certain ideas of his". I'd managed to squeeze a few of my own ideas into last year's budget. Perhaps I could do Duncan Smith a favour and convince George to drop the measures that so offended him? But then I remember. Why in God's name would I want to do Iain Duncan Smith a favour?

"Perhaps he'll resign" I chuckle, "And do you all a favour". David's expression hardens.

"You joke" he replies, "But a resignation from Iain would effectively _finish_ George". Chancellors had, and always would, make enemies of their colleagues, often unintentionally. I had rather a long list of the people Gordon had managed to piss off during my own time in the Treasury. Such close opposition might make a man tougher, but it would leave him with few friends. Few people would stand in the way should Duncan Smith and his fellow assassins come for George's head one day.

"Already picked out your successor, have you?" I wink. David snorts slightly indignatly.

"Oh, _please_ " he says, "You've been eyeing up my office ever since you arrived here". I narrow my eyes, a small smile on my lips. _It could be a very nice office indeed, if it had some work done on it._

"It is in fact my plan to kick out both you and George, and crown myself Queen" I announce. David nods.

"I'll warn Her Majesty when next I meet her" he smiles, quietly amused, "I'm sure she'll be _thrilled_."

"She certainly will be" I agree, "So long as you remember to not mention Europe."


	117. Signs of a Downward Spiral.

**18th February, 2016.**

**Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

_A phone buzzes loudly on the small table beside my bed. It takes me only a few moments to rise from my slumber, by now well accustomed to early-morning phone calls. A hoarse, deep voice greets me before I can speak. The call came from a source I did not recognise._

_"Pardon?" I mumble, running the sleep from my eyes. I reach over to flick the lamp beside me on, hoping a little artificial light would help to wake my brain up. "Alright, alright" I sigh, feeling the signs of a particularly bothersome headache denveloping, "I'll come straight over."_

_It was incredibly lucky the children were away, Alex at Eton and Emily with her father. I wouldn't have had much time at all to explain to them why I had to disappear so early, or arrange for someone else to look after them while I was gone. I'd be gone for some time, I suspected. It would be a very long day indeed._

_Within the hour, I'm being escorted to the office. I'm wearily greeted by aides and colleagues alike when I arrive, all of them gathered together, chattering away to themselves about what they would find in the morning's papers after sunrise. We waited for the Prime Minister. My mood is not improved when the Chancellor fails to show before him._

_Grappling with fatigue, I listen intently to Gordon's plans. By morning, the public would awake to see the country they lived in was, potentially, a very different one. Things had been bad for quite some time now, especially so in the past month. The months, and years, that lay ahead of us, however, promised to be ten times as difficult._

_It was 3:36am, and myself and my colleagues were, at the advice of those who supposedly knew what they were doing, now charged with quite the momentous task. We had little time, and billions to raise. I'd thought I'd spend the morning reading another of my Jane Austen novels of a bowl of cereal. Instead, I was spending it saving the country's banking system._

Jonathan, perhaps rather oddly, looks younger now than he did on that day. I got the impression he wasn't enjoying the section of his book he was currently attempting to finish. _The financial crisis_. With Iraq out of the way, I could understand why he might want to turn to my second biggest disaster. I'd read a couple of years ago that my personal approval ratings had dipped below zero once twice in my years as an MP, once, for several months, during the invasion, and once during the crash.

"Even if we did do right by the country" Jonathan says, "It was a right fucking mess". I could think of no plainer words to describe the event. No wonder Gordon had been so stressed.

"Stop chatting, you two" Helena interrupts, poking her head around the opened patio door, "We're waiting for you". I set my tea down on the coffee table and lead Jonathan out onto the lawn at the back of the house. I could say that it was, in a way, my house now. The family estate now housed myself, Alex and Isaac too. I had no use for a permanent home in Oxfordshire any more, and so I had given in to Alex's lobbying and surrendered it.

" _We can live in the other house. It isn't exactly short of bedrooms_ " he had said, dark eyes lit up as he detailed his plan to me, " _We don't need all this space, but others do._ "

Those others had taken the form of a rather pleasant Syrian family, newly arrived from the horrors of their home country. I'd seen some less than sympathetic figures accuse Alex of making a token gesture, as though the idea had been followed through solely with the intention of flattering his ego. He had, naturally, slapped down such figures in the Commons with a series of withering put-downs, managing to silence even Peter Bone, to the great amusement of his friends on the other side.

Jonathan and I follow my sister to a somewhat secluded part of the garden, beneath the shadow of a hedge and surrounded by sweet-smelling red flowers. Surprisingly neatly, given that my brother had been in control of the spade, a rectangular hole is dug in the ground, not at all large but appropriately deep.

Much of the family, it seemed, had gathered for the send-off. Nevin had even fished out an old black tie to wear. He bounces his young son is in arms as Alex approaches, a small wooden box held tightly in his arms. We had all agreed to this with a degree of light-heartedness, but beneath the humour of the situation, I could see genuine, and _great_ , sadness in my own son's eyes as he joins the rest of the group.

Spock the cat, the strange ball of fluff Alex had rescued from the lawns of Eton many years ago, was dead. Alex had been reprimanded quite severely for harbouring the animal in his dormitory at Eton, to the extent to which I had to be called to be informed. Spock, curiously named one might think, had been a good companion to him, as pets often were.

Isaac offers my son a comforting pat on the back when the box is lowered into its hole by Claire. _Would a few words be appropriate?_ I had never attended an _animal_ funeral before. I wouldn't laugh, for Alex's sake.

"I'll miss him" Emily sighs sadly, looking down at the dirt with tears brimming her eyes. As was traditional, we each take a handful of dirt and toss it down on the box below. We leave Alex to his own thoughts afterwards. Spock had been rather a good companion, so no one could blame him.

"Do you think we should buy him a kitten?" Helena proposes. He had Isaac to keep him company now, but I didn't think Alex would be able to fuss him as he did Spock.

"Let him get over this one, first" I reply. He hadn't bought the cat at a shop, or rescued it from a shelter. He had quite literally stumbled upon it when out with friends. He'd never mentioned wanting a pet before hand.

"Mother?" I hear Alex call. The hole was now filled, and my son was making his way back to the house. "Could I have a word?". I could offer little words of wisdom on dealing with grief over the death of a cat, but the grave expression on my son's face suggests something slightly more serious.

"I've fallen into a spot of bother" I'm told, being led around the garden. _It was only a matter of time, in fairness_.

"You're not getting any grief from any one, I hope" I say. I couldn't imagine Alex offending any one to such an extent.

"In a way, yes" my son answers, unusually downcast, "I've been told of something rather damaging that's due to be published in the Express". I feel my heart sink an inch or two almost instantly. _It really was only a matter of time_. Already I begin to think through my contacts, hopeful that I had at least once ally on the Express' editorial team.

"Is it true?" I ask, albeit hesitantly, "The allegation made against you?". The press loved to make attacks relating to two things in particular. _Sex or money_ , or indeed both if they were lucky enough.

"Unfortunately, yes" Alex sighs, glancing up the lawn and towards the large windows of the sitting room beyond. Through them I could see Isaac, looking most relaxed as he shared a cup of tea with the rest. Alex stares right at him. _Oh dear. It wasn't money, then_. I don't need to prompt him to tell me more.

"We had something of a fall-out last year, as I'm sure you noticed" Alex says, his admission delivered slightly reluctantly, "In my stupidity, I _may_ have spent an hour or two at the student bar and, well, _befriended_ a young man whose father happened to be donating to my campaign". He essentially splutters the last few sentences, as though wishing them to escape his mouth as soon as was physically possible. It was something of a jumble, but it took me very little time to understand what exactly had happened.

"You're a student. We all do silly things at university" I say, defence kicking in, "And you were unaware that his father was a donor". Alex arches an eyebrow at me. No doubt he was quite unused to it all. Alastair Campbell and Peter had taught me all I knew about dealing with the media. A tricky situation could be dodged, if handled properly.

"Except I did know his father was a donor" Alex objects.

"The press don't need to know that" I point out. If the press were in anyway decent, they would leave stories such as this alone. There were various real stories to cover all over the world, yet the sporadically seedy private lives of public figures appealed to them far more. "Heavens" Alex laughs humourlessly, "I'm discussing _spin_ with my own mother."

"I'll get onto Lionel, and Liam from The Telegraph" I say, retrieving my phone from my pocket, "I'm sure they'll be able to sort it". They'd managed to save my skin in the rather hectic year that had been 2014.

"Do you think that's quite right?" Alex asks, worry glazing his eyes yet again, "To abuse our friends in the media?". I shake my head, a small smile toying on my lips. Alex always had been considerably softer than I. I imagined the rather _underhand_ elements of politics were quite alien to him.

"I'm not abusing them, darling, I'm _utilising_ them" I reassure him, scrolling through my contacts to find the relevant numbers, "Lionel in particular will want to help, any way. A distraction such as this won't at all be helpful so early in your career". I sounded like his manager, but it was very much true. I'd been marred by controversy in the waning years of my career. I'd been lucky enough to avoid conflict when first I entered the Commons.

"Does Isaac know?" I ask, curious.

"No" Alex replies, dark eyes focusing on the boy in the window, "It would be right for him to hear this from me, wouldn't it?". I nod and gesture for him to follow me back towards the house. I had phone calls to make, and more stories to tell Jonathan.

" _Trust me_ , darling" I tell my son softly, memories of my own mishaps resurfacing, "It pays to be honest."

_Conference season, 1994. We had every reason to be in high spirits, yet I found little reason to smile this morning. I was due to make my first speech to conference, and my night had not progressed as anticipated. I might forget my speech, but what I really wanted to forget were last night's decisions._

_"Good morning, Liz". John Prescott startles me as I exit my hotel room. I jump and instinctively push back against the door, keen on keeping John out. I move away when I hear the faint sounds of another stirring from within, quite suddenly hurrying away from the door and along the corridor with John in tow. "Are you nervous?" he asks, unhelpfully,_

_"Oh, no" I lie. From the corner of my eye I spot John glancing back. I follow his line of sight, praying that my hotel room door would remain closed. I quicken my pace, almost fainting at the prospect of being caught out. I could only hope that the excitement of the conference hall would distract me._

_"Did you enjoy your evening?" John questions, politely, "I think I saw you at the bar, talking some chap with dark-". I cut him off by pushing the doors at the end of the corridor open particularly hard, causing them to bang into the walls beyond very loudly indeed. "I've had better evenings" I say, for that was actually the truth._

* * *

A day later, and I find myself in London again. As peaceful as Oxfordshire was, I didn't like to be away from the city for too long. I'd have to make the most of my return. I was due to fly off to America again in a week or so.

Edith, I had learned, was far quieter in sleep than George was. I'd been woken by her only occasionally. The snoring I heard, even when trying to shield my ears with my pillow, bothered me far more. On this particular night, I decide to give up, ignoring the clock that sits on the bedside table, I give up, reaching for my dressing gown and creeping from the bedroom as quietly as possible.

 _11:55pm_. I'd had longer nights. I didn't want to look too tired come morning, however. Michael Heseltine had rather kindly invited me to tea. After that, I'd have to talk to Lionel. Alex had called me at least twice earlier in the day, voice no more than a whisper, telling me of how he worried about that dreaded Express story.

I hear my phone buzz from where I had left it in the sitting room. For a second I think it might be Alex again, but upon closer inspection I realise it is Fraser. At first I panic, fearing something dreadful had happened, but then again dreadful news is unlikely to be revealed via _text_. With slightly blurry vision, I read the message.

_'Obtained one or two spoilers from tomorrow's papers. Not good.'_

Shit. It appeared my meeting with Lionel had been arranged in vain. The Express' story would make things rather awkward for our household for a while, but we'd encountered worse. And it wasn't _that_ bad a revelation, was it? It was difficult to think of a single MP who hadn't been caught out doing similar at some stage in their life.

' _Don't think you'll like them either_ '. A second message pops up. No doubt our conversation would be made easier were we to actually speak to one another, but we both risked disturbing the peace of our respective families. ' _Why_?' I type hurriedly. This was quickly becoming an issue.

'Go and see if there is anyone in the press office' my brother advises. I highly doubted it, given the hour. It would no doubt cause alarm too, if someone were to hear another creeping about the house at such an hour. Yet my curiosity threatens to overpower me. Whatever was contained in the papers printed come sunrise, it was not very complimentary. I was sorry to have not been _warned_ this time.

I check on Edith once more, quite surprised she had not yet been forced awake my George's seemingly unrelenting snoring, before tip-toeing out of the apartment and across the landing. I didn't really feel entirely secure wandering about at such a time, half-expecting some form of security to jump out at me and club me. It was a stupid thing to do, but, now that I'd spoken to Fraser, I couldn't help myself.

I was sure I could hear movement on the floor below. With the staircase submerged in darkness, I have only the bannister to guide me. More creaking is heard the closer I get to the next level. I bite my lip, hairs pricking up at the back of my neck. _You idiot, what are you doing?_  This seemed far too frightening for a task that was bound to be fruitless. There was someone lurking about Downing Street, but it wasn't a press officer in possession of the morning's headlines.

I freeze when I hear a particularly ancient floorboard creak behind me. _What was I expecting? The ghost of William Gladstone?_ I'm aware of my own ridiculousness by now, but still I feel a degree of fear. Slowly, I allow myself to turn around. Even through the shadow of the corridor I can see something. Gingerly I reach out, suspecting it was perhaps just a shadow. I feel my eyes widen when I feel soft cotton brush against my finger tips.

"Hello, Liz" comes a voice. A small squeak escapes my lips, and, arms raised, I leap backwards. The bright light of a mobile phone is turned on in front of me. "Fucking _hell_ , David" I growl through gritted teeth, heart pounding, "Why are you creeping about down here? _And why are you dressed_?". David glances down at the suit he wears and blinks at me. He looks rather less smart when I notice that he is also wearing fluffy pink slippers.

"They're Sam's" he tells me quickly. It was quite the feat, but that was easily the biggest lie he had ever told.

"Are you stealing from your own house?" I ask, rapid beating of my chest making me impatient, "Or making a quick getaway?". David lowers his phone as the light from it starts to blind me.

"I'm off to Brussels in a few hours" David informs me, "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd get dressed". I study him quietly for a moment or two. It was no doubt morning by now, but still many hours before my cousin would begin his journey. I wondered whether Sam snored as George did.

"What's keeping you awake?" I ask. A sadness flashes in David's eyes. Even in the darkness of the corridor I can see his face fall. His expression reminded me of that he had sported almost constantly during the weeks of Scotland's referendum. The dreaded European question was likely to much more difficult for my cousin.

"Can you hear something?" David asks abruptly, glancing around. Like a burglar in fear of being caught, he turns the light of his phone off. I reach forward to poke him gently. "Turn it back on, you idiot" I whisper. I could definitely hear more footsteps now, followed by the creaking of a door.

"Perhaps it's Maggie" I joke, "Coming to snatch our milk". David, ever the child, clings onto the sleeve of my dressing gown. God knows what the household staff would think, were one of their number to find us like this. When the creaking stops, I suspect one of them has.

The hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise again, and, with baited breath, I stand rigid as a hand gently touches my waist. I yelp before I have the time to think, jumping into David, causing him to emit a very girlish squeal. My heart races all the more, even when I realise our mystery ghost was in fact George, wide grin plastered on his face as he beheld the sight of two of the nation's most senior figures cowering in fear.

"Oh, _George_ " I snarl.

"I've heard you shout that before" David mumbles over my shoulder. He squeals again when I aim my foot at his knee.

"I was following you" George explains himself before I can question him, "Is this some sort of impromptu family gathering?". His grin widens all the more when he spots David's slippers.

"David was feeling restless, so he thought he'd go for a walk about" I sigh, rubbing the spot above my chest that began to ache, "He's worrying about this awful EU business". David opens his mouth to defend himself, but is cut off by George. I couldn't help but feel like I was a teacher telling an unsuspecting parent what their rather troublesome child had been up to.

"There would be no _awful EU business_ if _my_ advice had been followed" George utters under his breath. I find I'm quite taken aback. It was quite rare for him to be so scathing with David present. He usually shared his complaints with me.

"You signed up for this just as I did" David replies sternly, "Don't start having _scruples_ now". George furrows his brows sharply. I try to intervene before this already awkward situation escalated even more.

"If you could avoid having a domestic, please" I interject calmly, "Go to bed, George. And do stop stalking about the place, David". David does as instructed, disappearing into a nearby state room, but George lingers.

"What exactly are you doing up?" he questions, eyes narrowed. With David out of earshot, I see no reason to lie to him. "I received a slightly unsettling message from Fraser" I admit, "It seems tomorrow's papers aren't going to be particularly flattering to my family."

"I suppose they've gone for Alex too" George says, barely even flinching. I nod. From the floor above, I can hear a faint gurgling. I good time, George is seizing my hand and leading me back up towards the apartment. "I'm sure we can bear it" he yawns, "If I have to put up with constant bollocking from the press, I don't see why you should be left alone". I frown at him, now aware that the noises coming from Edith's crib were growing gradually louder. It wouldn't be the first time David was disturbed by her crying. It did appear the walls of Downing Street were thinner than first thought.

"I'm not sure how funny that is" I say quietly, curiosity as to what the papers held still very much at its height. George pushes the door into the apartment open and, half-asleep, plods along to the bedroom again. I was no longer tired, but I decide to follow him anyway.

'Obtained one or two spoilers from tomorrow's papers. Not good.'

I'd seen a great many _not good_ headlines over the years. But how _not_ _good_ would tomorrow's be?


	118. Dark Clouds Gathering.

**16th March, 2016.**

**11 Downing Street, London.**

' _OFF WITH THEIR HEADS: Not-So-Good Queen Bess Rages At Press'_. One month on, and still the Mail appeared to be obsessed with what had, admittedly, being something of a cock up. Alex had got off very lightly, even if the Mail continued to bang on about his mishaps too. ' _EXCLUSIVE: Interview with Nelson Jnr's Secret Lover_ '. Alex had only ever met this supposed _secret lover_ once. The suggestion that he was some how in close contact was ludicrous.

But it was me who captivated the Mail so much. I was something of a tyrant in their eyes, perhaps understandably. I'd sought to use my links with the media to spare Alex his embarrassment, only to find my efforts reported in the Express alongside his own. Except not only had my attempts to smother the Express been reported, my campaign, aided by Lionel and Liam from The Telegraph, to spare myself the embarrassment of William Lewis' attack had also been reported. I had a history, it seemed, of twisting the press. That was not, in any measure, _good_.

"You're looking at it again" I hear Helena speak. I turn my eyes away from the paper draped across the coffee table and look over to my sister. "It won't go away if I stop looking at it" I sigh. I'd barely gone outside since the story had broken. My reclusiveness had created a number of rather amusing images, with the likes of Andy and Gordon calling by the back door to come and see me.

"Just don't think about it" Helena urges, gesturing towards the cameraman who lingers in the doorway of the sitting room, "The press will be focused elsewhere today, anyway". I could hear the faint sounds of a man getting ready in the room down the hall. No red box had been set down on the kitchen table as yet. It waited downstairs today, briefing notes and dossiers removed, holding only a speech, and a very important speech too. " _Budget day_ " I mumble, "Let's pray George wears a particularly exciting tie". The press wouldn't stay focused on economic policy for very long, especially when there was greater gossip elsewhere.

"Couldn't you escape to America for a bit?" Helena proposes, grazing her hand against the line of outfits draped across the couch. Apparently I had to have a selection to wear, for this particular interview apparently had to be accompanied by a photo shoot. I'd never done an interview with _Vogue_ before. It was surprising, given that my own sister co-edited it. "I do actually have a small child to attend to" I remind her.

Helena and her photographer look up when a thin man in a fitting blue suit strides in. He'd been relatively quiet all week, such was the stress of budget day. He smiles when he sees Edith, however, who contentedly gargles to herself on the armchair my sister had set her down on. "Are you off to the madhouse now?" Helena asks. The anguish returns to George's eyes.

"Could you give us a moment, please?" I ask my sister and her aide. Helena takes a second or two to judge George's suit before disappearing into the hallway. "What's wrong?" I query, once I'm confident my sister was no longer in earshot.

"I know it's budget day, before you say anything" I add as George joins me near the window, "You weren't so glum before the last one". I bat George's hands away from his collar when he begins to fiddle with his tie again. "I wasn't so _unpopular_ before the last one" he complains.

"You're not one to be bothered by popularity" I smile, smoothing the lapels of his suit. George's face falls all the more. "It's slightly different when it's your own side that hate you" he replies. I'd come to realise over the last few months that the Tories loved to _gossip_. Both George and David were the subject of most of it these days. Europe seemed to have riled many on their backbenches.

"Do you think your sister would mind looking after Edith this evening?" George proposes. I frown, opening my mouth to quiz him, only to be cut off by said sister. I should have known she was listening in. "No, I would not mind" Helena smiles, sweeping back into the sitting room with her photographer in tow.

"Get a shot of that, Harry" she mutters, waving her hand lazily in the direction of myself and George, "It's romantic". I roll my eyes. I hoped Edith caught sight of me. The sooner she picked up the trait, in my opinion, the better. George, on the other hand, simply glares.

"I should be off" he says, pecking my cheek. He doesn't at all resemble a man of great power as he walks away, but a young schoolboy dragging his feet as he walks into school. I certainly hoped he picked himself up a little more at the dispatch box. I was disappointed to be confined to the apartment for this budget. Even the gallery of the Commons was too exposed a place for me at the moment.

"Oh dear" Helena sighs, watching George disappear onto the landing beyond the apartment with disapproving eyes.

"Quite" I say, rubbing my temple lightly, "He's feeling rather stressed at the moment". Helena smirks.

"Oh, no" she corrects me, "I was talking about his _trousers_ ". I furrow my brows at her. I had been hoping that his attire would draw attention away from me.

"His trousers?" I ponder. Helena nods, nose tipped towards the ceiling.

"They're too short." 

* * *

I hadn't been able to see George's trousers in any great detail on television. Helena appeared most disgruntled when a long-range shot of the House that might allow more attendant viewers to get a glimpse of the chancellor's trousers was cut short. Heaven forbid the BBC showed the _faces_ of those involved. Not that the trousers mattered now, of course. I was surprised Helena had not hidden herself in our wardrobe, keen to burst forth and snatch them up the minute they were removed.

Showing the faces of those sitting in the Commons had been a great deal more insightful than any trouser shots might have been, of course. The expressions of those on the Tory benches were particularly fascinating. I could see murder in the eyes of several when _Europe_ was mentioned.

 _Omnishambles Budget II_. Fraser had texted me specifically to tell me that George's statement had already been given a childish nickname by the press. I was starting to regret wishing for the attention of the media to be moved away from me. Even discussing my clothes was preferable to this. George had been rather frustrated when he arrived home. He'd mumbled something about staying at home tomorrow, but for now he could sleep.

 _'Keep an eye on Iain'_. Yet another message from Fraser flashes up on the screen of my phone. Quietly, I slide the phone from its safe spot on the bedside table and type my reply. _'Whatever do you mean?'_. I knew exactly which Iain my brother referred to. I also remembered seeing him storm from No. 10 not too long ago.

 _'Do you remember that awful tax credits debacle?'_ Fraser asks. I sigh heavily, conscious of making too much time in case I woke the sleeping figure beside me. _'Unfortunately'_ I reply. George's position had been just as shaky last November, having proposed changes to the tax credits system which would considerably damage the poorest in the country. I'd not been a part of his defeat that month, but I hadn't at all agreed with him on the idea. Independence from party constraints had liberated me to a degree, but marrying a member of the government was occasionally rather restrictive.

 _'This is going to be even worse for George_ '. I'd complain about it later, but I knew Fraser was probably right. I couldn't help but wonder whether those on the Tory benches had been waiting for an excuse to knife George in the back. Whatever their intentions, I knew we were safe so long as David remained. _If David remained_.

* * *

George may have decided to stay in, but he didn't appear to be willing to make the breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table, Financial Times laid out in front of him, lazily stirring his tea. I had already dashed out of the kitchen in panic twice, as the breakfast I attempted to prepare burnt on the stove. I never had been suited to such domestic things.

"Surely you ought to turn up at the Commons at some point today" I say, as casually as I can manage, "You're expected at the debate". I was well accustomed to the processes of the budget by now. Gordon had always insisted on being present on every day of debate following his budgets, whether it be for ten minutes or a couple of hours.

"I'm aware of what is expected of me" George mumbles, "I've work here I can attend to". Shutting himself away in his study didn't appear entirely constructive to me, but I would resist an argument. _For now_.

"Be careful!" I hear George warn as I leap away from a pan of near-blackened bacon, "Do try not to burn the house down, won't you?". I rub temple as I judge the attempted breakfast from a distance. It was a relief that he hadn't married me for my cooking skills.

"I'll try my best" I joke, setting George's plate down in front of him, "Though it might be worth considering, before Iain Duncan Smith tries to". George abruptly seizes his plate and pushes his chair back.

"I think I'll get started straight away, actually" he decides suddenly, "I'll be in the study if you need me". Before I can even attempt to reply, he has disppeared from the apartment and descended down the creaking staircase of the house. "Well, _sod_ you then" I mutter, perching down on his vacant chair at the table. I pick at my own breakfast, unattractively charred, and watch Edith play with hers. I wasn't entirely sure what I'd do with my day, but a call from Michael Heseltine had given me a potential option.

"Let's take tea" he had proposed, "I shan't mention Europe, I swear it". I considered that essential in conversation now. With the EU dominating talk allover the country, only a solemn promise _not_ to incite an argument over it sufficed for me. "Are you available?" my ex-nemesis had added.

I had instantly reached for the newspapers already delivered to me. Amongst the talk of reality television and latest rumours about Prince Harry were a number of comment pieces regarding my apparently grip on the press. I was, _still_ , the dreadful authoritarian who tried to smother negative stories about my family. That was entirely unfair, of course, for it had only been a _handful_ of damaging stories that I had managed to suppress, and for good reason. I'd shivered when I'd spotted a particularly awful piece about my so-called _secret admiration_ for Nigel Farage of all people.

"Alas" I had sighed down the phone, faced with another day of hiding, "It doesn't look like I am."


	119. Panama.

**3rd April, 2016.**

**Henley-On-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

"Lady Nelson, your husband should resign, shouldn't he?". Two things unsettled me about Andrew Neil's approach. First, that he spat the title ' _Lady_ ' with such an obvious tone of mockery. Second, that he opened his interrogation by asking me about the man I was married to, rather than something I had said or done. Of course, that man happened to be a very important one, but I shouldn't expect to answer for his mishaps, should I?

"I'm sure there are many who would be thrilled to see George resign" I say, veiling my contempt for the man before me as best as I could, "But it won't happen". I didn't want to mention _that_ name, for fear of inciting further questioning about it. Of course, after a brief pause, Neil ends up speaking _that_ name regardless. "Iain Duncan Smith resigned because of him" Neil questions, spying me over the brims of his spectacles, "Surely a man who angers his own colleagues so greatly can't possibly remain in government". _Shit_.

"Iain Duncan Smith resigned _weeks_ ago" I reply calmly, "Come along, Andrew, you're doing your profession no favours at all". In the days after the budget, George had remained at home for much of his time, appearing in the Commons only briefly in an attempt to string together support for the measures he'd announced. It did appear, however, that Duncan Smith had been slighted one too many times.

"It isn't just that" Neil says, glancing down at his notes, "His forecasts of doom and gloom over Brexit have infuriated many in his own party. He's now seen as the leader of Project Fear". _Bloody Europe._ It hadn't gone away, but instead had complicated itself all the more. Not only was George's position threatened by Duncan Smith, it was threatened by the looming prospect of divorce from the EU. I got terribly stressed sometimes, but on this particular occasion I was keen to remain calm. " _Project Fear_ is exactly what the nationalists called our side during the independence referendum" I respond, "Offering sensible warnings on the economy is not scaremongering". _But predicting economic collapse is_.

I didn't at all approve of the way George and my cousin were conducting themselves during this damned referendum. Both seemed intent on bombarding voters with figures and expecting them to understand. Paddy Ashdown had appeared on Question Time only the other night to warn that Vladimir Putin himself would be delighted should Britain vote to leave. I myself was still undecided. But quietly so, you understand.

"You'll vote to remain, won't you?" Neil smirks. I arch an eyebrow at him. I'd not won much favour for my relative silence on the European front. David and my old Labour colleagues expected me to get stuck into the fight with them on the _Remain_ side, whilst the _Leave_ lot criticised me for supposedly abandoning my old eurosceptic ways. _Leave and Remain_. That was how people seemed to be defined these days. I didn't like it one bit.

"I'll vote for whichever option I feel has the most to offer me" I reply coldly, "I think there are sensible people on both sides of the debate". Europe had certainly divided my family. I was told that my older relatives in Scotland were all in favour of sticking two fingers up to the continent. Those in Oxfordshire, however, welcomed the EU. "So you're open to the possibility of voting leave?" Neil grins.

"If you're about to corner me about how voting leave is equivalent to knifing both my husband and my cousin in the back, you ought to change tact" I warn, barely disguising my frustration, "I think you're being terribly childish, Andrew". The man appears stunned at first, but soon resumes in his smugness.

"I might be childish" he speaks, "But you, according to a certain Republican presidential candidate, are a _horrible woman_ ". I can't help but laugh. I'd returned to the US for a couple of days only last week, keen to get away from the continued furore over bloody Duncan Smith. Being labelled a _horrible woman_ by Donald Trump had actually cheered me up.

"Perhaps I am" I smile, "Though I'd rather be a horrible woman than a shrivelled tangerine with a personality disorder."

* * *

I return home, barely soothed by the gentle warmth of a pleasant Sunday morning, to hear a series of rather unsettling _grunts_. A peak around the hedge behind the family home lifts me from my unease, however, as around a small tennis court I observe my niece, gracefully deflecting the balls hurled at her by Claire, with the rest of the clan looking on from a distance.

"Jolly good, Catherine" Nevin cheers, sluggishly reaching for the almost-empty bottle of gin resting on the table beside him, "You'll be playing at Wimbledon before you know it". My mother slaps him on the arm as I approach.

"Don't say that" she grumbles, "I've already told her. Her studies must come first". I consider reminding her that she'd been only too happy to send me off to awful ballet lessons and piano recitals when I was younger, but decide to keep quiet.

"How was your grilling?" Helena asks, plonking a small child down on my knee the second I sit down. I take a second or two to calm myself, not difficult with little Edith with me. "Brilliant" I sigh, "I think I digged myself into something of a hole on Europe". Nevin mumbles something into his glass, whilst my mother tuts.

"Don't mention Europe now, dear" she tells me softly. It was a contentious issue in every household, grand or ordinary. The less that was said of it in polite conversation, I'd figured, the better. "At least you weren't interrogated on George this time" Helena snorts, narrowing her eyes in the usual judgemental way at Claire's shorts.

"Predictably, I _was_ " I grumble, holding Edith closer still, "It's as though I was no one before I married him". I hadn't been idle since I'd left the Commons. I was very much active in the Lords, I continued to write my column. I was active myself. "How is George?" my mother asks casually, "I forgot to ask when I last spoke to David. Oh, that poor _boy_ ". I roll my eyes.

"He's relatively cheerful most of the time" I sigh, partly wishing I was back at Downing Street where I could keep an eye on him. " _Most of the time_ " Helena repeats.

"You should have invited him to the ballet" she suggests. I snort. I couldn't imagine George sitting in a theatre for two hours with much enjoyment. He'd hadn't adopted my cousin's love of Game of Thrones, but he was rather fond of Downton Abbey. That sort of thing would come as a welcome escape amid the stresses of the Treasury.

"I've already got Michael to keep me company" I joke.

"I still can't quite believe you're so _chummy_ with Heseltine" my sister exclaims. My younger self would have fainted at the thought of being friends with Michael. "He's a lovely man" I say. Helena arches an eyebrow at me. _I really had undergone quite the reformation these past twenty years_.

"I think you should have a word with Emily before you go" my mother nods, expression shifting considerably. I glance back at the house. Emily was probably having a dabble on the piano, making the most of what peace she had whilst the rest of us sat outside. She didn't seem to be as interested in her music these days, but I wasn't sure why.

"What do you mean?" I ask, glancing down as Edith starts to fidget on my lap. Mother simply sighs, her old eyes focusing on Catherine as she reaches up for a particularly hard swing at the tennis ball thrown to her. "She's not _herself_ " my mother tells me. My eyes are drawn to the house again. _Had I been neglecting her? Had been some kind of fall out with Lionel?_ I suspected the blame was more likely to fall at my door than Lionel's.

"I'm worried about you too, dear" my mother muses, admirably ignoring the intoxicated mumblings of my brother to her left, "You're, well, _plumper_ these days". _Oh, what it was to have a supportive family_. It was like sitting with the editorial staff of the Mail.

"You were forever moaning at me for being as thin as a rake" I grumble, "And now that I'm of average weight, you moan at me all the more". My mother holds her hands up in defence. What defence she had, I did not know. She was constantly snapping at my sister for pointing out the apparent _roundness_ of our sister-in-law, but seemed comfortable telling me that I was carrying one too many pounds about my waist.

"You looked rather sexy in that Vogue shoot we did" Helena chips in. For once, I'm glad of her input. I'd been told that the interview, a rather unusual one for me given the involvement of fashion, was due to be published within the coming days. I could only pray that my sister's editorial skills would help to redeem my character a little.

"To quote a song Catherine was forever singing about the kitchen last year" Nevin mumbles, eyeing up the shorts Helena so disapproved of with an entirely different kind of interest, " _I'm all about that bass_ ". I roll my eyes, Helena silently shivering beside me.

"As grateful as I am for that confidence boost" I say, shielding Edith's ears in case my brother made any more attempts to reference popular culture, "Never say that again."

* * *

"I can't say you're, if you'll pardon me, _sexy_. Though you are rather charming". My elderly companion surprises me. I have to stifle my laughter with my hand when he speaks. I'd only mentioned my mother's criticisms of me in passing, bored as we waiting for the interval to end and the next act to begin. "I'm _married_ " Michael adds quietly. He barely flinches when the man beside him sticks a sharp elbow into his forearm.

"Do be quiet!" the man urges, voice next to a whisper. My desire to laugh is not alleviated by the ridiculously childish grin Michael shoots in my direction just seconds after. Cautious of creating a scene, I turn my eyes towards the stage to enjoy what was left of the performance. Swan Lake. I wasn't entirely sure why we'd decided on something so _depressing_ , but it was at least an interesting tale.

"I do wish you'd _take to the stage_ " Michael whispers. I watch him from only the corner of my eye. The ballet had come to a crucial point by now. The end approached. "If you're talking about _bloody_ Europe" I reply in equal discretion, "I'm not interested". I spot Michael shaking his head. I didn't think the theatre was the best place for an argument, so I shut him out for the next few minutes.

The man beside me looks on with tears in his eyes. I myself was, surprisingly, rather moved. Beautiful and graceful, Odette bows her head. I had seen the ballet enough times by now to know what would follow next. Odette would leap into the lake to end her life, with her beloved Siegfried alongside her. It was not the most joyous of endings, but both characters were at least _reunited_. So much chaos and confusion, all culminating in the sad demise of two lovers nonetheless eternally bound together. It was quite heavy stuff for an idle evening.

I'd met many a Rothbart in my time. Purely unpleasant creatures who are, _depending on interpretation_ , defeated in the end. I'm not lost in my thoughts for too long, however, as the lights in the theatre are suddenly lifted, and the audience rise to their feet to applaud. "Why, Michael" I smirk, clapping along with the rest, "You appear to be crying."

Michael hastily brushed the tears from his eyes and clears his throat. "Nonsense" he insists, "Tories don't cry". I'd seen David cry at numerous films, but then again he wasn't a _proper_ Tory.

"I mean what I said about Europe, you know" Michael tells me as we slip our coats on and make for the door, "You can't shy away from this particular battle, Liz". I sigh. The referendum was a most persistent stalker.

"Soliders ought to know which side they're fighting for before they put their armour on" I reply. I suspected the Battle of Agincourt would have been considerably different had Henry V sat on the sidelines and pondered on whether or not the French really _were_ so bad.

"Can't you let me enjoy what has been a rather cultured evening without being reminded of the referendum?" I ask politely. Michael nods and offers his arm. We followed a long procession of elderly ladies and gentlemen trooping off for their complimentary glasses of champagne at the bar. It would make for quite the interesting picture should any journalists be lurking near. We might have passed for a couple had there not been so many years between us.

"Still not a fan, Liz?". A silky voice catches me off guard. I feel a sharp pain ripple through my chest as a horribly familiar face approaches. "Say, sir, you look familiar" Michael says, scratching his chin as I attempt to collect myself.

"William Lewis" I growl, the name dripping from my mouth like poison, "Someone best avoided". I hadn't seen him since his sacking from The Telegraph. He was too clever to think that Fred Barclay himself had taken against him. I was surprised he hadn't come after me sooner. "You're at the Mail now, aren't you?" I say with narrowed eyes, "Enjoying it there?". He was far better suited to the Mail than the Telegraph. For former simply adored sensationalist headlines.

"Very much so" Lewis grins, attempting to step in between myself and Michael, "With Brexit creeping near, there's a great deal to write about". Michael arches an eyebrow at him. I so wanted to get away as quickly as possible, but I could tell Michael wanted to ask questions.

"Why do you say that?" he ponders, "You talk as though you already know the result". I chuckle under my breath. Lewis would never be so clever.

"Well, unlike darling Liz here, I actually know what it is to live in the real world" Lewis smiles sweetly, "Ordinary people know better than to listen to the likes of _Cameron_ ". On any other occasion I might have overlooked the insult. I usually rather enjoyed jokes made about my cousin.

"If you think Brexit is the best option, I'll pitch my tent on the remain side" I scowl, "I think I've made my mind up now, Michael". The old man smiles softly as I quietly fume.

"I'm glad to hear it" he says, tightening the grip he has about my arm in an effort to get me away.

"Will you not allow me a word or two?" Lewis asks, pursuing us out of the theatre. Most of our fellow spectators barely noticed, too aborbed in their thoughts about the ballet. I had been having a pleasant evening until Lewis appeared. "Two words in particular spring to mind" I spit.

"That's not very kind" Lewis grins. Michael tries to tug me away, but I resist. "Alright, fine" I growl, "Excuse us for a minute, Michael."

A small abandoned room to the left of the reception seemed appropriate. Michae had muttered something to himself about fetching himself a drink from the bar whilst I spoke to Lewis. I didn't intend for our conversation to last long. "What do you want?" I ask sharply. The sooner I got to the point, the better.

"I suppose I just love to tease you" Lewis admits with a grin, "Besides, its so _easy_."

"I find it somewhat hilarious that, after the great stink you made about those stories I gathered" Lewis sighs, leaning against the wall casually, "You still ended up with your darling _George_."

" _Don't_ " I warn. I didn't know exactly what I'd do if he persisted, but I could sense I was on the verge of doing something. I was only small. The chances of me threatening him physically were slim.

"Still, George isn't your biggest problem" Lewis speaks, "At least he won't be in a few hours". I feel my heart sink all the more. I really did despise the press at times.

"I won't indulge you by asking what you mean" I reply, making for the door. Lewis steps out to block me.

"Ever fancied going to Panama?" he asks. I frown at him, before turning my eyes to the glass of the doors, hoping to catch the sight of Michael if I could. " _Panama_?" I ask, "You're barmy."

"Most probably" Lewis concedes. He did at least possess some sense of honesty, then. I hope for an end to our conversation and try again to leave. Lewis doesn't block me this time. In the next room I can see Michael now, waiting patiently for me to emerge.

Suddenly I feel a hand seize me by the arm. Before I can shake myself free, I'm being pulled forward. Another hand seizes me by the waist, and without warning a pair of particularly dry lips are forced on my own. Protests muffled, I wriggle free from his grip and strike him across the face before he can approach again.

Lewis nurses his cheek a small smile, eyes darting to the other room. I glance over again, and see that now, just behind Michael, a _photographer_ now stands by. My heart doesn't sink this time, but seems to stop entirely. I feel my eyes widen. "You bastard" I can only whisper.

I'm too stunned to notice Michael stepping into the room. He looks Lewis up and down, no doubt clueless as to what had just passed, before gently linking arms with me once more. I go with him without another word to Lewis.

" _Still_ " I hear Michael speak, "The _ballet_ ". I nod eagerly, keen to forget everything that had come to pass. The young lady who had played Odette had been rather good. "I'll drive you home, if you'd like" Michael adds, "You look terribly pale."


	120. Public Enemies.

**6th April, 2016.**

**Westminster Cathedral, London.**

"They can't find me in here". That was my excuse for tucking myself away so early. Downing Street was only just beginning to stir when I left, the surrounding streets empty enough to allow an uninterrupted stroll. I was surprised the press hadn't taken to camping outside. If it wasn't the press, it was the protestors. " _Cameron must go_ " they chanted, waving their placards about with great fervour. My cousin wasn't the only one who had fallen victim to the world's latest scandal. It was a bad time for my family, it seemed.

"Put that away in here" I whisper to my son, conscious despite the relative emptiness of the cathedral, "Don't insult Him". The Daily Mail is tucked away. Alex had followed my example and sought a safe haven. There was no chance of the media tackling us in here. Such was the fury surrounding this dreadful Panama Papers business, even those who were not directly incriminated were finding themselves attacked.

"Any news of Nevin?" Alex asks quietly. I turn my eyes towards the altar and sigh. No amount of praying would save my brother from the mess he was submerged in. Then again, given that is latest troubles were entirely of his own doing, I wasn't sure I wanted to pray a happy resolution.

"I still can't quite believe him" I tut, "Father would had been furious. To dodge one's taxes is one thing. To be so secretive about it is another". I'd often wondered how it was Nevin managed to keep the family estate going, whilst also attempting to restore his control over the old family business. He was a local councillor, and therefore had only expenses to depend upon. Such was the trust in my brother that the use of underhand tax tactics had never occurred to any one.

"Do you think he'll resign?" Alex asks, face notably pale. Again I sigh. The past three days or so had predominantly been spent _sighing_. This Panama debacle had only added to the stress I had felt ever since my encounter with William Lewis after the ballet. He'd known precisely what he was doing that night. He'd intentionally set everything up. If I could pray for anything, it would be that the dreaded Panama Papers would distract the media enough for his forceful embrace of me would go unnoticed.

"Mother?" I hear Alex asks. I turn my head to him and shake the vacancy from my eyes. "Do you think he'll resign?" my son asks again.

"Unfortunately, I think it is likely" I admit. My cousin, embroiled only because his father happened to have been mentioned in the papers, had angered voters enough to inspire them to demonstrate against him. My brother had knowingly exploited options open to him from abroad. I could only imagine how angry the people of Henley were. "Should I make a statement?" Alex ponders, "He is our county councillor."

"He's also your _uncle_ " I point out, "I'd recommend steering clear of the subject."

"You're right" Alex says, "I should start discussing Iain Duncan Smith again". I shoot him a stern look. George was still rather scarred by Duncan Smith's resignation, quietly licking his wounds whilst the Panama scandal blew up around him. "I bet your boyfriend is feeling rather smug" I exhale, glancing back to the altar, eyes steadily drifting upwards towards the ornate ceiling of the cathedral, hoping that the sight would calm me.

"Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about Isaac" Alex grumbles. It was lucky that we were alone, with no priests or fellow believers having a quiet moment to themselves nearby. We'd spent less time praying and more time chatting. "He's still frightfully angry with me" my son says sadly, bowing his head.

"He'll get over it in time" I insist, "Most of us have been guilty of silly things like that at some point". I wouldn't go into it in the presence of Him. Confession would be a better place for such a conversation. If Alex's one small act of dalliance counted as a sin, I should already be committed to Hell. "I'm not so sure he will forgive me" Alex admits. I'm unsure of how to reply. Their relationship had always been slightly rocky. Perhaps it wasn't to be, after all.

"Come along, darling" I say, getting to my feet, ready to tackle whatever foe was waiting outside, "Let's go to work". I cross myself before I leave, silently wishing myself courage for the day ahead. I needed all the strengths I could get in what were very dark days for my family. So many of us seemed to be up to our necks in it, some more than others.

"I didn't buy The Sun" Alex mutters, filing through his bag as we make our way outside. "You say that as though it's a bad thing" I chuckle. The streets were now a little busier than they had been when first I arrived, but were in no way bustling. Still, I felt uneasy.

"I like to buy all the tabloids" Alex tells me, withdrawing his wallet and making for one of the many news stands dotted about London, "Even if half of them are total hogwash, it's best to be updated". I wait as he hands over a handful of change for his paper. He opens it as we walk.

"Do you have to linger on that page?" I say with mild disgust, averting my eyes from the less than tasteful sight of page three, "You look like quite the creep". Alex, evidently absorbed by a nearby article, looks to the enormous bosoms printed before him with a frown.

"I have all my clothes tightly fitted" he says, "It should be obvious I swing the other way". I attempt to stifle my laugh with the back of my hand, whilst my son casually flips over to the next page. Before I know it, the paper is falling from his hands and landing flat on the damp pavement at our feet. I see the open spread before Alex can scramble to retrieve it. I should have expected it, but not quite so soon. Already my heart sinks.

 _'GOTCHA! BETRAYAL FOR CHANCELLOR AS NELSON CAUGHT IN PASSIONATE CLINCH WITH EX_ '. The accompanying image provides a comparatively calmer scene than the one I had been involved in. From the view of the photograher, my encounter with Lewis might well have been an embrace between two lovers. _In reality, it had been a great deal worse_.

"Forget you've seen it" Alex urges, snatching the copy of The Sun from the ground and hiding it away in his bag, "It's a lie and you know it. Don't dwell on it". With greater speed he begins to walk, encouraging me to dash on alongside him. We make our journey to Parliament in relative silence, only occasionally commenting on the weather or suspicious-looking folk likely to be undercover reporters.

 _Betrayal for Chancellor_. I had more or less predicted the headline. It was a pathetic attempt to undermine me, yet they had run with it all the same. A serious story, exposing extensive illegality and lying, had been uncovered in the Panama Papers, but of course the newspapers would return to what they knew best. There was nothing like a good old sex scandal.

"Emily was sorry you weren't able to pick her up from school yesterday, you know" Alex tells me, seeking to shift my attention away from that awful exchange at the ballet just three days ago, "She's really rather glum these days."

"She has exams coming up. It's only natural" I reply, still sorry to have had to cancel the dinner I had intended to have with her, "Thank you for taking her instead, by the way". I glance ahead at the looming tower of Big Ben, its structure casting a shadow over the distant terrace that had been home to so many an interesting moment during my time as an MP.

"Mother?" Alex queries, voice low, "Are you alright?". I nod and offer him a small smile. In the distance I could make out the odd union-hack brandishing an anti-Cameron placard, but no waiting journalists. Others around us appeared to absorbed in their phones to notice us. My family were public enemies number one at this present moment, but for now fate had allowed us a moment of calm.

"I'm perfectly fine" I lie, The Sun headline still bouncing about my head, "Now be a good lad and hurry off to work."

* * *

 _A housing bill._ It wasn't the most exciting distraction from my worries about Panama, The Sun and Brexit, a less than holy trio, but it was one I accepted all the same. I'd offered to help Lord Kinnock go through the small print of the Bill with far too much enthusiasm. He'd been happily typing away at a laptop when he'd dispatched me to the Lords library.

Searching the bookcases for copies of previous housing bills had not been the best use of an afternoon, but I got on with my mission nonetheless. I had been, thankfully, alone for most of my search, but after about half an hour or so the sullen face of Lord Tebbit appears. Ignoring him requires little effort.

" _Baroness Nelson_ " he greets, almost mockingly. Without even looking at him I reply. " _Norman_ " I say simply. I saw no point in wasting breath on the man. Tebbit had always been thoroughly unpleasant.

"Your Cameron hasn't handled this Panama business very well at all, has he?" he comments, dragging a bony finger across the row of books in front of him, "Then again, it can't be any worse than that _pathetic_ deal he struck with the Europeans". David was of Tebbit's party, yet he was supposedly _my_ Cameron. The Lords opposed to my cousin were, it seemed, more overt than their Commons colleagues. "That Farage chap was on television the other day" Tebbit continues, "Do you know what he called you?". I roll my eyes.

"A fantastic human being?" I try.

" _A sellout_ " Tebbit corrects, faint hint of amusement in his eye. There was something almost sinister about the way he began to smile. Alex was forever telling me of the quiet mutiny of his fellow Tories. To be confronted by one such dissenter unnerved me more than I cared to admit.

"I can't say I'll lose any sleep over the judgement of Nigel Farage" I respond, unfazed by the man. I was content without his support. I had better people to impress. "Your lot really _are_ unpopular at the moment" Tebbit witters on.

"Tax-dodgers, liars and _adulterers_ " he spits. I keep my eyes focused on the book case, keen to veil my anger. Tebbit had obviously read his copy of The Sun this morning.

"Heavens, it's like the Thatcher era is being repeated" I sigh, "Minus the rent boys". Tebbit steps closer as another peer enters the library. I find myself quite relieved that it isn't Michael. It didn't take a great deal to incite an argument between veterans of the Tory Party these days.

"Still" Tebbit says, shrugging his shoulders, "At least the party will be reclaimed?". I find I've zoned out slightly.

"For the rent boys?" I blink.

" _For its own good_ " Tebbit bites. I suppose David was something of a wet blanket to the likes of Tebbit. Compassion, it seemed, had not yet reached all of my Lords colleagues. "I realise I probably shouldn't reveal this to you" the old man smiles, "You've tried to have your way with the press before. Heavens, I might find myself kicked out of the party by the end of the week". He laughs, but I ignore him. _Why was this bill I searched for so damned elusive?_ The sooner I found it, the sooner I could get away.

"Well, in my experience dissension quite often leads to suspension" I say, making a point of avoiding Tebbit's eyes. My mood lifts slightly when I finally spot the title I'd been searching for. "Resignation is usually your route" he quips.

"If you're so bothered about the damn party" I grumble, "Why don't _you_ resign?". I attempt to get away, only to find Tebbit starts to follow me. He couldn't pursue me too far. Lord Kinnock was likely to hit him square in the jaw if he persisted in his teasing of me.

"There's little point" the old Tory informs me, struggling only slightly to keep up with me as I strode down the corridor running alongside the library. "Your lot will be gone soon."

"Don't try and scare me with hollow threats, Norman" I growl. I'd been around far too long to be bothered by the words of old men. I'd sooner be intimidated by a lamp post.

"It's hardly hollow when the signatures are already being collected" Tebbit beams. It's only now that I round him.

"I'm sorry?" I ask.

" _Signatures_ " Tebbit repeats, "You tried to bin Miliband. You should know how these things work". Until now, I'd had only words. Regularly, Alex would tell me of the various mutinous things said by Tories working behind the scenes. _Words were words_. Genuine motions of no confidence were something entirely different, however.

"You're being ridiculous" I deflect.

"No, not really" the lord says. It's only then that he begins to slow down, satisfied he had made his point. I practically force the bill in Lord Kinnock's hand when I find him. I have to take a minute or two to sit and calm in the corner of the room before I feel ready to get on with my work.

In an odd way, I felt rather safe as a peer. I had only the occasional ranting socialist to threaten my position. I had no post to resign from, nothing those I've annoyed could chant for at demonstrations. In the cosy confines of the Lords chamber I was shielded from the mass protests and internal politics of Whitehall.

Even if the tat contained in The Sun was rather bothersome, it would at least be some time before the naysayers outside would start calling for _my_ head.

* * *

I spotted The Sun the moment I entered the room. My eyes were drawn to it, and guiltily so. David had seemed a little stiff in his conversation with me earlier, and Alex had made a point of avoiding mentions of any newspaper at all. I'd hurried away to Downing Street the moment I'd heard Lewis name uttered in the tea room at the Lords. Peter had found it most amusing.

Except I saw very little humour in this. Conveniently, the copy of the paper laid out on George's desk had been opened to the relevant page. There was that awful photo. A different angle did not make it any better. Still it failed to capture the horror of the event. My skittishness around the subject would not aid my case, I feared.

 _Why are you even worried? George was bound to understand. Why would he react any differently?_ He wasn't at all a violent type, so I found it extremely difficult to see him challenging Lewis on it physically. I did fear, however, that he'd attempt to copy one of my old tactics. Contacts. George was bound to know someone able to dislodge Lewis. But I wanted no more interference. It wouldn't at all play well for a family already accused of corruption.

"Ah, I thought I saw you slip in here" I hear him speak behind me, warm smile on his face. He'd clearly seen the headline, yet he continued to beam at me. _He had a few questions, surely?_ I didn't want to have to bring it up.

"I don't suppose you've come to cheer me up" George exhales, sinking down into the chair behind his desk. I try to occupy myself by glancing about the study. It was much neater than Gordon had ever kept it. "Liz?" I hear George ask, watching me with a puzzled expression.

"Has something happened?" he queries, confusion turning to concern. _I was going to have to bring it up_. I could justify George's ignorance. He was terribly busy most days, and only glanced over the papers handed to him out of duty. Yet, the offending article remails in full view. _He is not that blind_.

"I feel there is something I ought to explain to you" I say, sick at the thought of having to relive the incident all over again, "Something you might have noticed as you were glancing over your papers". I look to the copy of The Sun lying near but George doesn't appear to notice.

"Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about" he says, expression straightening, "A photo". _So he did see it_. I shiver quite abruptly before I can respond to him.

"I didn't notice the photographer until after it'd happened" I say, words tumbling from my mouth at far too fast a pace, "That was the point."

"It did look rather candid" George replies casually, flicking through something else resting on his desk. I couldn't quite tell what it was, but The Sun remained untouched. "You should ask your sister for a copy" he adds, alarming me all the more.

" _Pardon_?" I splutter.

George lifts the piece that so intrigues him, revealing a very familiar name. _Vogue_. He was hardly the sort to enjoy such a publication, so I could only presume it was the issue in which I had featured. "I really like this one" he tells me cheerfully, turning the magazine to show me a photo of myself, but without William Lewis. I saw myself bending down to check on Edith, who was nestled safely on a chair nearby. I had wondered which photos my sister had chosen to use for her interview. The more I looked at the one featured, the more I liked it.

"Oh. Oh, yes" I say, still surprised to have not been confronted by the image of Lewis _seizing_ me, "Yes, very nice."

"You thought I was talking about The Sun, didn't you?" George poses suddenly. My hesitation serves as an answer. George sets Vogue aside, but still refuses to look to the paper in question. Instead, he pushes back his chair and approaches me.

" _Ah_ " I manage.

"If I had any muscle at all I might challenge that Lewis fellow" George threatens. One needed only look him up and down to see he possessed the strength of a twig.

"You're not John Prescott, George" I remind him.

"Perhaps a strongly-worded letter then" he ponders. Such a casual dismissal of the issue relaxed me considerably. Perhaps _not caring_ was the simplest way to defeat the press.

"I'm not entirely sure what happened" he speaks, "But I don't feel betrayed."

"Good" I assert, nerves subsiding, "Lord knows what Lewis could offer me. _Barack Obama_ , maybe". _Or Robert Downey Jr_.

"Remind me to never let you disappear to America again" George titters, offering me a hug. I could only accept. If those beyond Downing Street hated us, we would have to make do with each other.

" _Crisis_!". Our peace is interrupted by the creaking of a door, around which a red-faced David pokes his head. The Panama affair had left him uncharacteristically nervous.

"Oh dear" I say, barely moving from the embrace for fear of forsaking what little comfort I had these days, "Has Trump got his hands on the nuclear codes?"

"Don't be silly" George adds, "His hands are far too small". David finds neither comment amusing.

"They've gathered again" he breathes, eyes darting about the office as though fearing the building would collapse in around him.

"Then don't go outside" George advises bluntly. David simply blinks at him, lingering at the door as though waiting for his chancellor to leave with him. " _Fine_ " the latter eventually concedes. I was sorry to break what had been a pleasant moment. Lord knew when David would _calm down_. It was almost funny.

Almost.

* * *

The protestors had returned to their homes many hours ago, and for the last few Downing Street had been entirely silent. I'd suffered only the odd nervous thought about the awful Sun situation, but had otherwise slept very well. Perhaps I wouldn't have to retreat to church cold morning, I'd thought to myself.

But of course, in typical fashion, I find my peace is soon disturbed. "Who's dying?" I hear George mumble to my left, the duvet cocooning me being yanked away to another side of the bed. I wasn't entirely sure how funny that particular remark was. My phone had started to ring, at the beautifully apt time of _00:09_ , and by Lionel of all people. Part of me _hoped_ he was drunk.

"Hello?" I ask groggily, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I attempt to speak quietly, but still managed to be heard by the third occupant of the room. I'm forced to kick George from his fortress of blankets when little Edith begins to stir.

"I need you to come down to the station" I hear Lionel speak, panic evident in his voice, "Preferably now."

"Station?" I murmur. It would take my brain a minute or two to catch up given the hour.

"The police station in Notting Hill" Lionel replies impatiently. I sit up and push a collection of frizzy curls from my eyes. As worry begins to build itself back up again, my senses slowly begin to return. "Who is it?" George yawns, tucking the small child in the corner of the room into her enviably cosy nest.

" _Now_ , Liz" Lionel barks as I fall quiet for only a split second. Instinctively, I push back the covers George had not yet pulled from me and dash over to the wardrobe, phone still clamped to my ear.

"I would like to know what exactly is going on" I request politely, nervous of angering Lionel too much in what certainly seemed like a stressful situation. Rather than shout, however, I hear Lionel emit a small sob. Quite suddenly, I find my limbs freeze. A horridly sharp shiver ripples down my spine, as finally the sleepy fog occupying my brain begins to clear. _Emily_.

"Where is she?" I demand. She couldn't have got herself involved in the law, surely? Had she been attacked? I had many questions, too many to have answered at this particular juncture. Instead, I wait for Lionel to calm himself.

"That's just it" he says hopelessly, "She's _missing_."


	121. Emily.

**7th April, 2016.**

**Chelsea Hospital, London.**

The hand I hold is strikingly cold. It was rather frightening, to feel such icy skin, the perfectly grey complexion set totally in calm. Painless, but seemingly new to the feeling of relaxation. If lying down in a hospital bed could be counted as relaxation, that is. I'd give anything for Emily to be elsewhere, yet here I found her. Many had come in and out of the room over the last few hours, doctors and nurses rushing in an out, alongside the odd family member or two. Lionel and I had been near-constant presences at her bedside.

"It's the bandages that upset me most"  Lionel says, sitting dutifully bedside the poor girl. I dare to cast my eyes down to the bands of white wrapped about our daughter's wrists. There had been various other bumps and scrapes about her knees, but those would easily heal. She'd bear the scars about her wrists for many years to come.

"I should have paid more attention to her" I hear myself say, feeling quite detached as I look upon the pale face of a girl I'd once seen so cheerful, "I should have known there was something wrong."

"As should I" Lionel sighs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, "Don't blame yourself, please, Liz". Not bloody likely. Alex had provided me with enough warnings. In fact, I'd seen myself the growing look of despair in her eyes. Even playing the piano didn't seem to enthuse her of late. That should have been a sign in itself. "If it isn't my fault, whose fault is it?" I ask, hopelessly, "I should have done better, Lionel". A passing doctor had already tried to warn me against guilt. It was difficult _not_ to take responsibility. There was so much I could have done to save my Emily from whatever dark slope she'd found herself on.

"A back alley in Kensington, of all places" Lionel repeats, rubbing his temple, "I should have asked where it was she was going". Last night, I'd been told, Emily had told her father she was joining a group of friends at a rehearsal for a school production. There was little reason for Lionel to think otherwise. Emily was an unfailingly honest girl.

"Thank God that police officer found her" the man adds. I'd already had a word with the officer in question, to give her my sincere thanks. Lionel and I had been panicking for a good hour or two before Emily had been found. Even if she had been in rather a poor state, she had been found.

"I wish I knew what brought her so low" I say quietly, silently praying that Emily would begin to stir. What could I have said or done to make her feel better? There must have been something, surely? Did my neglect of her push her too far? Many questions darted about my head, but I couldn't find the answers to any of them. All I knew is that I felt guilty.

"Don't dwell on it. She's safe now" Lionel advises, "Go home, Liz, get some sleep."

"I'm perfectly fine" I insist, "You're the one with a newspaper to run. I'll stay". Lionel shakes his head, refusing to move from where he sits.

"Sod the newspaper" he says, "Go home". I eventually give in, but not before taking another five minutes or so to ensure that Emily was properly tucked in, and to brush errant strands of hair from her eyes. "Do tell me when she wakes" I request, keen to be with her whenever it was she rose from her slumber. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Emily had always deserved far more attention than that which I gave her.

"You're not a bad person, Liz" Lionel attempts to reason as I collect my coat. I had, as part of my own personal reformation these last few years, endeavoured to be _kinder_ , more _considerate_. Yet, it seemed, I'd allowed myself to be put off by the troubles of my own daughter. But why? What reason could I give? What could I say to her when she did wake?

* * *

David was unnecessarily stressed.

After returning from the hospital, I'd had a short nap before retreating into one of the many sitting rooms below stairs. Edith was taken care of with the Cameron children, and George was filing through papers in a dull office in the Treasury somewhere. I'd thought a good book and a cup of tea might be enough to console me, but I was mistaken. David did not ease my worry, _naturally_.

"I won't resign" he mutters to himself, casting a red box down on the vacant seat beside me, "I _won't_ resign". The protests outside seemed so very distant now.

"I do wish this entire business would just die down" he continues, running a hand through his continually thinning hair. I glance up from my copy of _Far From the Madding Crowd_ only momentarily. "It might have done" I reply, "Had you handled it better". David had made several statements about his involvement in the Panama debacle, most of which seemed to contradict one another. It was, to use an old phrase of Gordon's, _a total fucking shambles_.

"I suppose this does distract from this awful Europe business" David concedes, sinking down into the sofa opposite.

"Another crisis you could have avoided" I say absently. David frowns at me.

"Must you be so grumpy?" he scowls. When I next look at him, I see only the annoying cousin I'd been forced to put up with during my childhood. We got on reasonably well these days, but his character remained unchanged in so many ways. I was still feeling incredibly angry with myself for my treatment of Emily. I wasn't sure David's whining was helpful.

"It isn't as though I have a daughter in hospital, is it?" I snap.

"I'm sorry, Liz" he speaks quietly, "I didn't think."

"You never do" I bite, too riled to care, "I don't particular care about Europe or Panama at this moment in time. Take your whimpering elsewhere". David sits silently, staring directly at me. I turn back to my book in an effort to avoid the hurt look in his eyes. _Apologise_.

"I'm sorry, David" I manage, setting the book aside and facing him again, "I'm just feeling rather stressed at the moment."

I get no reply. My cousin simply nods, gets to his feet and reaches over for his red box. "I am sorry" I call out, keen to avoid any awkwardness later in the day. Downing Street felt terribly small at times, and David so often frequented our apartment. _With all the issues and tensions facing our family, I had to go and create more, didn't I?_

And then I'm left alone again. I try to continue with my book, but find I've lost interest. I held myself responsible for Emily's sadness, and had now upset an already troubled David. _What a fine record._

A loud buzzing startles me, and with a small groan I reach down into my pocket to withdraw my phone. _Mother_. Many decades ago, David had made a habit of telling my mother whenever I'd upset him. _Had he been so fast?_

"Any developments?" I hear her ask. She'd been every bit as terrified as i when first she heard of Emily's disappearance. I was surprised she hadn't dashed down to London by foot.

"No, nothing" I sigh, images of Emily's pale face flashing up in my mind.

"Things are not much better here" my mother tells me sadly, "Nevin has been asked to hand in his resignation". A resignation from a county council didn't seem to be as grave a matter as David's potential resignation, but it was quite the scandal down in Henley. _The troubles of the Nelson-Cameron clan continued to mount._

"Will he do it?" I ponder, barely focusing on her voice.

"I suspect he will. He barely leaves his study these days" I'm told, "It's terribly unfair on poor Claire, and their little boy. Not to mention the fact that's she's, _well_ ". My mother's voice trails off, and with curiosity I narrow my eyes.

"She's what?" I ask, slowly begin to realise what this secret affliction of Claire's was. "She's _expecting_ again" my mother whispers eventually. I would have offered my congratulations straight away had I not been so depressed by other things. _Another_ new arrival in the Nelson family. We at least were far from extinction.

"Oh, Liz" my mother cries, "Isn't life dreadful at times?". Lionel would have to tell me of any developments on another phone. I'd be stuck on this one in an effort to calm my mother for quite some time, I predicted.

"Yes" I confess, all the more miserable when I consider the fact that I'd received no word at all regarding Emily this past hour or so, "Life can be a total pain in the arse."

* * *

Parliament had often acted as my chief distraction, and so here I found myself, walking along a narrow corridor towards a damp old office I had once occupied with Peter. Quite by accident, Alex had ended up in the same one only a few months ago. It hadn't improved.

"Good afternoon, Lady Nelson" an MP I did not recognise greets, "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I like to keep an eye on my son" I reply in jest, continuing on along the corridor in search of Alex's dark corner.

"Perhaps wise" the MP says, giving me a curt nod, "Though, I did think you'd rather spend your time rendezvousing with William Lewis". As they turn back, I notice a large red badge pinned to their lapel. _Vote Leave_ , it said in thick white letters. Thick white letters for what appeared to be a thick white man. " _Cretin_ " I murmur to myself, all thoughts of that awful Sun headline now minuscule when compared to thoughts of Emily.

"I've had _enough_ " a man shouts from beyond. MPs were not sorted by party here, as had been the case in my day. Arguments were bound to break out at some point. Or perhaps this particular fight took place between two Labour colleagues. They bickered amongst themselves far more than any other group.

"You know where the door is" a comparatively calm voice utters, " _Go_."

"Gladly" the angry man bellows, slamming a door behind him, "Toffee-nosed prick". I chuckle only for a second or two. It had been funny until I saw that the furious man bounding down the corridor towards me was in fact Isaac. The Commons seemed an odd place for a domestic, but the incident had already passed, it seemed. " _Ms Nelson_ " the young man nods to me as he thuds past.

"What on Earth are you two bickering about?" I ask my son when I reach the office. Alex sinks down into his seat and sighs heavily. He looked frightfully tired. I wondered whether he too had too worried to sleep. "The usual" he exhales.

"Despite apologising approximately nineteen-thousand times, I'm _still_ an adulterous bastard" Alex tells me, irritation flashing in his dark eyes. There didn't seem to be much more Alex could do to excuse what had been a relatively minor mistake. I thought it a great shame. He and Isaac had always worked together so wonderfully.

"Fraser tells me Emily hasn't woken" Alex moves on, leaping from one sad topic to another.

"No, she hasn't" I respond, bowing my head. I'd been told while at the hospital that her life was not endangered in any way. It wasn't as though she _wouldn't_ wake again, but the waiting killed me. I wanted to see her awake, eyes returning to their old brightness. I hated seeing her so grey.

"I've been making good progress in my Syria campaign, you know" Alex tells me, changing subject before either of us grew too miserable. "Though I seem to have more support from the opposition than my own side" he adds, sitting upright in his chair, attempting an enthusiastic smile.

"You're doing a good job, darling" I smile weakly, "One of us has to". That comment doesn't go unnoticed.

"Please don't punish yourself, Mother" Alex advises, leaning forward to take my hands in his own. I start to calm down. _But then I hear a voice._

Entirely familiar to me, and for all the wrong reasons, the voice came from the corridor outside, perhaps one of two doors away. I find myself stepping out of Alex's office before I can really think. He follows me, confusion turning to caution when he spots the ominous figure exiting another office nearby. He stands beside the MP who had so graciously talked of my alleged _rendezvous_. William Lewis, chatting casually, laughing and smiling.

A cold shiver runs right through me when his eyes turn to me. "Liz!" he calls happily, waving his hand, "How marvellous to see you". I don't reply, but instead watch him. Alex attempts to lead me away into the safety of his office. I wasn't at all in the mood for Lewis today, so I had every reason to follow him. Yet I choose to stay perfectly still, as if waiting for him to pounce.

"I'm not sure now is the time, sweetheart" he drones, mockingly blowing a kiss my way, "Is George about?". Again, I say nothing. My limbs simply refused to move, not out of fear but a burning desire to stand my ground. Alex now insists that I retreat.

"Goodness, I could easily have mistaken that young man there for George" Lewis continues, delighting in his teasing of me, "It's almost as though they're related". My eyes dart about the corridor. Many MPs along it kept their office doors open. Rumours spread remarkably easily in Westminster. It took only the dullest flame to ignite a fire.

"An odd bunch, your family" Lewis smiles, so warm yet so cold, "Not excluding that young girl of yours, naturally". Pure joy flashes in his eyes, and in an instant I'm clenching my fists. _He knew about Emily_. Lord knows how, _but he knew_.

"Liars, cheats, adulterers" Lewis sighs contentedly, "And of course the one _nutter_ ". I barely flinch. If he knew about Emily, he was bound to attempt a joke about it. So long as I didn't awake tomorrow to see headlines about it, I'd gladly ignore him. Alex, however, seems to have other ideas.

He had always been a sweet child, more likely to hug than hit. I'd seen him move out of the corner of my eye, but thought nothing of it. I'd never have predicted his next move, no matter what bile Lewis spouted. The MP he stands beside across the corridor takes a step back, cowering behind his office door as Alex grows closer. I couldn't blame him. Alex could be rather _frightening_ when angry.

I blink. There is a _thud_. So much seemed to have happened in only a second. I'd missed the act itself, but from where I stand I can see the aftermath. The wide eyes of the cowering MP, hand over mouth. The oddly satisfying sight of Lewis sinking to the ground, a pained expression on his face, a steady flow of blood dripping through his fingers as he clutches his nose. The gasps of nearby MPs who peer out of their offices.

A number rush forward. I'm too stunned to intervene, utterly bemused by what had just passed. Alex, rubbing his fist, takes a step back, anger gradually draining from his face. For a moment or two I wonder whether he is about to apologise, but he's seized before he can. Two approaching MPs grab him, perhaps suspecting his attack would escalate into a full blown fight. Alex allows himself to be pulled down the corridor. My shock turns to mild amusement when no one makes an effort to check on Lewis.

"I don't suppose you could lend me a tissue, my dear?" he mumbles, a messy heap on the floor. His nose looked terribly sore. _What a pity_.

"Certainly" I smile, reaching into my pocket and withdrawing an unused handkerchief. Lewis props himself up on his elbows and reaches out towards me. I ignore his hand and drop the handkerchief on the ground next to him. " _Oh_ " I hear him mutter.

Lord knew what kind of trouble Alex had managed to create by punching him, but he had at least ensured that Lewis would leave us be. _For now, at least_.


	122. Twelve Stars.

**16th April, 2016.**

**Downing Street, London.**

_Barack Obama's legs really were rather fine_. Yet another random thought pops into my head. Hospital visiting hours were not yet upon us, and so I'd turned on the television to busy myself. I'd received many a message from Hillary since last I visited America, hoping for my continued help in what was an increasingly difficult campaign. I would have been quite keen to return, had I not been so worried about Emily. "Couldn't turn to the Parliament channel, could you?" George requests, fastening a blue tie about his collar, "David is speaking."

"I see" I sigh, eyes barely moving from the television screen, "All the more reason to continue watching Obama's ars-, _speech_ ". My eyes dart in the direction of George, who frowns at me.

"I was going to suggest that you retreat to America for a week or two, to take your mind off things" he says, "I'm not sure it's safe now". I tear myself away from whatever it was Barack Obama was preaching about Donald Trump and shoot him a smile. I felt I _could_ smile now. Emily was recovering very well, and, _slowly_ , starting to smile again herself.

"Where are you off to today?" I ask. George disappears into the bedroom, but calls out from where he stands. I rather hoped he was picking out a new tie. There were only so many shades of blue a man could sport.

"Ludlow" George tells me, returning to the sitting room with little Edith bundled up in his arms. His tie remained unchanged. I was somewhat hopeful that Edith would ruin it for him. " _Ludlow_ " I repeat, "You will be back this evening, won't you?". Even if i insisted on spending as much time as possible by Emily's side, I still didn't like him to be away for too long.

"I'll insist on it" George reassures me, "I've already called your mother and asked if she'd like to look after Edith this evening."

"A good idea" I nod, "She needs a distraction". My mother had eventually given in to panic and insisted that she be driven down to London to see Emily. She'd been a near-constant presence at her bedside ever since. I could even recall one or two arguments with hospital staff about visiting hours.

"Besides, it means I can spend my evening with you" George adds brightly. I turn my eyes away from the television. The camera had panned away from Obama and now focused on another. Nancy Pelosi was lovely, but I didn't feel particularly attracted to her.

"I didn't realise we had something planned" I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. I begin to get the impression that there is something on his mind. Indeed, the last time he had Edith sent away for the evening was during the chaos of his last budget. What weighed heavily on his conscience now, I did not know.

"We don't" George smiles, "Perhaps a Star Wars film?". I scoff at that suggestion.

"Certainly not" I tell him, keen to suppress any idea of a Star Wars marathon before it could fester in his mind, "Pride and Prejudice?". It seemed only fair for me to make my own suggestions.

"We don't have to watch anything" George intejects, before I'm given chance to suggest any more of my preferred period dramas. I arch an eyebrow. He could be frightfully cheeky at times. "Ah" I say, "It's to be _that_ sort of evening, is it?". A wink is the only response I get.

"Before you dash off to Ludlow" I say, sitting up and adopting a much more serious tone. I'd watched George give many a speech about the merits of EU membership, and whilst I appreciated his eloquence and intelligence, I had one or two small criticisms. "Might I advise that you, well, steer clear of the _doom and gloom_ this time?".

"Don't tell me you've become absorbed in that Project Fear bollocks" George chuckles, quite distracted by the sweetness of little Edith's round face. _Project Fear_. A ship commandeered by a band of great liberal elitists who delighted in frightening the general public with forecasts of depression and disaster. George seemed to have become the captain of said great elitists. This was, of course, the characterisation of those on the opposite side of the argument. I only thought George a small elitist.

"I know it's your job to safeguard the finances" I go on, wary of him losing all his credibility, "But I worry we're shutting too many people off."

"So you're definitely throwing your weight behind our side then?" George smiles proudly, as though solely responsible for my decision to back Remain. I wasn't actually sure I'd ever said as much to him. "No, I'm going to actively campaign against you" I roll my eyes.

"You've done so before, don't forget" George reminds me smugly. I'd by now forgotten what it was to be _against_ him. In a way, of course, I'd never taken a personal objection, but neither of us had been shy in criticising one another's opinions. "Now, I shall leave you to enjoy Obama alone" the man says, plonking the small child he carries down in my lap, "You could always catch me on Sky News, of course."

"I _could_ " I ponder, "Or I couldn't". I probably would. Even if I pretended otherwise, I did enjoy listening to George's speeches. The content didn't always enthrall me, in all honesty, but I paid attention all the same. No doubt owing to my influence, George rolls his eyes and slip the odd wispy strand of hair from Edith's eyes.

"See you later" he says, kissing me goodbye. I couldn't be sure when he'd return, but I knew I had time a plenty to watch the rest of the Obama speech that so easily captivated me. As soon as I hear the door of the apartment shut, I look back to the president.

"You see him?" I guide Edith, whose dark eyes seem to wonder elsewhere, "Isn't he just _lovely_."

* * *

There was no Obama to watch at Chelsea Hospital, but I did find a much better sight. Emily had already fallen asleep by the time I arrived for my visit. I didn't see the eyes or the smile that gradually grew brighter. I did see, however, smooth skin no longer a dull grey. She _looked_ healthy. The bandages about her wrists had thinned, and no longer was she entirely surrounded by strange contraptions and machines. I immediately got the sense that she was _recovering_ , and so happy I became.

Alex already sits with her, less than gracefully flopped over a chair with his head in his hands. I begin to wonder whether he's fallen asleep too. "Morning" he yawns, barely moving.

"Are you quite alright, darling?" I ask, faintly amused. Alex manages to sit up and stretches his limbs out with a groan. "I had something of a rough night" he tells me.

"Oh dear, did Isaac kick you onto the street?" I joke. Alex hesitates for too long a time.

"I really should replace that sofa" he grumbles, rubbing the spot at the base of his spine. I'd have found the image of him being banished to the couch a funny one, had I not also found it rather frustrating. I could understand why Isaac might be hurt, but I could not help but feel he was taking things too far now.

"I'd invite you to sleep on my sofa" I sigh, "But I fear your presence in Downing Street might annoy your peers". Instinctively, Alex rubs his fist, wincing as he does so. His assault of William Lewis had not occurred without great attention. A number of my Labour peers seemed to find the incident funny. Alex's more right-wing colleagues weren't as impressed.

"Some have asked that I be suspended from the party" Alex informs me, only the _tiniest_ hint of worry apparent in his eyes, "I suspect they're simply looking for excuses to kick me out."

"The liberals are always an option" I joke. I tske the seat on the opposite side of the bed and reach across to take Emily's resting hand. She wasn't as cold as he had been.

"Yes" Alex agrees, "A _bad_ one". The Liberal Democrats had initially been loose allies of Alex, with so many of his own party taking a dislike to him, but had since fallen out with him. Admitting slight Euroscepticism, it seemed, was too much for them.

"MTV" a mumble to my right says. A pair of strikingly blue eyes flutter open, darting first in my direction and then towards Alex. "MTV" Emily repeats, "Do they have MTV?". Alex and I look to one another I amusement. _Drugged up_ , he mouthed to me. Lord knew what they were giving her here. If they it kept her content, I was happy.

"MTV" the mumbling continues, as Emily reaches about her bedside table for a television remote. A private room at the side of a corridor allowed for a proper television, and quite often I had found her sat upright watching the charts. I was rather relieved her love of music hadn't been lost in the haze of the medication she'd been given. "There is no MTV" I say, well aware from my own experiences in hospital of the severe lack of decent television channels in these places. _To think George was funding the NHS for such a poor service_.

"Oh" Emily says quietly, sinking further into her pillow again. She turns the television on, but doesn't watch it. Within minutes, she's asleep again. She was not always as dazed as this, but still slept often. Even if we didn't speak a great deal during my visits, I liked to be beside her. Alex, however, appears slightly bored, as, with the upmost sensitivity, he slips the remote from her hands and changes the channel.

"That's good timing" he beams, resting back in his seat. I roll my eyes at what I see on the television screen. George spoke before a sizeable audience, gesturing about the room and shifting from foot to foot as he told those gathered of the wanton destruction tha Brexit would unleash. I couldn't help but wince at some of his predictions. _Even I didn't believe all of it_.

"Must you watch this here?" I sigh.

"It's topical" Alex argues.

"But not appropriate here" I warn. I wouldn't wish to incite a discussion about Europe with Alex, nor any visiting doctors. It didn't feel right, regardless, with Emily near. The referendum dominated life far too much as it was. I wouldn't have it distract from my time with Emily. "Turn it off" I instruct. Alex rolls his eyes, and a few seconds later George vanishes, replaced by a pure black screen.

"I thought that was rather good" my son muses, as though to provoke me further, "What he said about _European friendship_ ". I can't muster enough interest to respond. No doubt it was rather selfish of me, to overlook George's hard work, but I felt my priorities lay elsewhere.

"Your support would be appreciated, you know" Alex needles with narrowed eyes, "Two months out from the vote and you haven't yet _helped_ us". I begin to notice the heavy bags under his eyes. Tiredness had always made me slightly cranky. I would forgive his bluntness on this occasion.

"I've been rather distracted" I remind him, "I don't see what impact I can make, anyway. I've spent much of my career slagging the EU off". I'd already seen a quote of mine used in a broadcast of Vote Leave's. Boris Johnson in particular was quite fond of referring to me when lecturing about damned Brussels bureaucrats. "I'm no Brexiteer" I add, "But I'm not sure I'm the greatest advocate for Remain."

"You have _doubts_ about Europe. You're far more in touch with common thought than most on our side seem to be" Alex says, clearly attempting to induct me into some grand campaign scheme, "At least write a column or something, please". I take a moment or two to think on it. I knew I'd have to phrase it all carefully. It would be ever so easy for our opponents to brand me a _sellout_ , as Nigel Farage had already done so. _Repeatedly_.

"Why we shouldn't stick two fingers up to Brussels just yet" I titter. Even the Express would like that.

"We've always loved our red cross more than we've loved the twelve golden stars of Europe" Alex ponders aloud, "But I see no reason why our two flags can't fly side by side". Now I'm the one narrowing my eyes.

"That was almost poetic" I poke, impressed nonetheless. Eton had certainly left him with a decent grasp of the English language. I was glad the tens of thousands I'd spent sending him there hadn't been wasted on the uniform alone.

"Isaac is a Classics student" Alex replies, hiding a yawn behind his palm, "I pick these things up". After the almighty row I'd overheard the other day, I was surprised Alex didn't flip at the mere mention of his name. I'd not been told the two had actually separated, but I suspected it was only a matter of time.

"I miss Spock, you know" Alex mutters sadly.

"Go to Vulcan" Emily sleepily mumbles, barely stirring from her slumber. I have to stifle my laugh with my sleeve out of fear of waking her.

"Oh, no. Vulcan won't do at all" Alex says, "Then again, there'll be no fucking EU Referendum on Vulcan."

* * *

It was rather nice, to end the day feeling genuinely tired. It made me feel I'd actually done something to warrant fatigue. In reality I'd done very little, simply conducting my business at No. 11 and keeping Emily company whilst she battled her drug-induced stupor. A few glasses of wine and some physical exercise of sorts eased me towards sleep, and now it seemed I was ready for a decent rest.

" _I was thinking_ " a voice to my left says, breaking the pleasant silence that had descended over our bedroom only a moment or two ago. "Go on" I mumble into my pillow. I could at least give the impression I was listening.

"When I go, Alex might get a shot at government" George says. I lie still for a second or two as the words slowly process. I force myself to flip over and face him. "What _are_ you talking about?" I ask, furrowing my brows at him.

"If I don't make the cut in a new administration" he attempts to explain, "David can't give Alex a job. A new PM could". I wonder whether he too is feeling rather tired. Most men would have drifted off by now.

"George, I've no idea what you're trying to say" I reply, "What new PM?". George sighs and casts his eyes towards the window. Curtains shielded its view now, but through the material one could just make out the shape of a startlingly bright moon. "I was thinking about what you said about my _scaremongering_ while I was in Ludlow, earlier. I don't seem to be getting through to people" George tells me, "I think you might be right."

"Of course I'm right" I utter. I'm tempted to roll over again and nod off, but the sorry look in his eyes convince me otherwise. "What's wrong?" I question gently.

"I don't know" George answers.

"That's a lie."

"Yes it is."

I prop myself up on my elbow and glare at him until he confesses. Fleetingly, I think about seizing what wine remained in the bottle on my bedside table and throwing it at him. I knew he wasn't an emotional type, but I wouldn't have thought it so difficult to get him to confide in me. " _Fine_ " he concedes.

"Twelve months ago, I'd effectively been crowned Britain's next prime minister. Now, I'm not even sure I'll be here two months from now."

"I don't really want to be prime minister, not now. I'd shut myself away in the Treasury and not speak a word about Europe if I did. I suppose I just don't like the prospect of being booted out."

"Why are you so convinced you will be _booted out_?" I query. I knew the omens were not good. George had suffered rather a sharp fall from grace since the departure of Iain Duncan Smith. The mounting threat to David only cemented our troubles.

"Regardless of the result, the backbenchers will want to knife David in the back" George says, "And once David goes, I go". There was no suicide pact. The two had made no arrangement to resign should the other one be stabbed in the back. George would not choose to go. He'd be _pushed._

"Boris might give you a job" I joke.

"I think I'd rather take the boot" George replies. He did at least smile now, but sadness lingered in his eyes. The idea had already been implanted in his mind. Perhaps that was why he argued his case in the referendum so fervently. If he was to be kicked out, he'd best go out fighting.

"What if it's Theresa?" George thinks. I chuckle at the suggestion, but know it's entirely likely. I'd never been fond of the woman, but I certainly trusted her more than I trusted _Boris_.

"She'll have to drag me out" I say, painting an amusing picture of Theresa dragging me by the heels as I cling to a doorframe in my head, "The _witch_."

"Don't be rude" George gently cautions, smiling and sneaking an arm about my shoulders all the same.

"I stand a better chance of surviving if it's Theresa" he muses, "Besides, she's fairly competent. I'm sure she'd make for a decent leader". _And a woman_. I might not feel any great connection with the woman, but I did at least respect her for making her own way. Perhaps it was time we had another female prime minister?

"Do you know who would be an even better leader?" I ask quietly. George looks on me with soft eyes, the hand he rests on my shoulder ever so slightly tightening.

"Tell me" he invites, and even through the darkness of the hour I can see the faintest hints of a smirk playing on his lips. I grin. _What a perfect wife I was._

"Michael Heseltine."

* * *

I wake not to the pleasing sight of sun pouring through open curtains on a fresh new day, but the sight of several fuzzy yellow blobs. After a few necessary seconds to fully come to my senses, I suddenly become aware there is something on my face. I shake the dull ache that lingers in my shoulder and reach up to move it. A newspaper, and a fresh one too. Above the image of the twelve stars of Europe flying in a calm Brussels breeze is another fearful headline about chaos on the continent.

The sudden opening of the bedroom door alarms me, and so onto the floor the paper drifts. "Ah, there it is" George notices immediately. While I wipe the sleep from my eyes, he bends down to retrieve the newspaper, also remembering to take the three other papers cast across the bed before he makes for the door again. "Is there any particular reason why you decided to throw the morning's papers at me?" I mumble grumpily.

"Sorry. There was a knock on the door just as I picked them up" he attempts to justify himself, "Besides, I thought the sight of the Mail would be enough to wake you". I was glad he had taken away the offending article before I could read it. I'd only get riled.

Now sufficiently alert, I glance across to the cot in which Edith usually resided at this time, only to find it empty. George follows my eyes. "Your mother is here" he informs me. I now feel more awake than ever.

" _What_?" I cough. This certainly was not a visit I'd organised. Lord knows how she'd managed to ger herself into Downing Street without prior planning. She seemed to have rolled up to our apartment as though we lived in an ordinary complex.

" _Your mother is here_ " George repeats slowly, his tone almost mocking, "She'll have to keep you company while I'm away". He darts back to my bedside but offers only a mere peck, before retreating to the doorway again. I look right to the clock sat on my bedside table. Through the glass of the empty wine bottle I'd left there I see the time. _7:34_.

"Where are you going now?" I ask.

" _Bath_ " he answers. He ought to start making travel documentaries, I thought, rather like Michael Portillo, but with trains replaced by chauffeur-driven Jaguars.

"Do you smell?" I attempt to joke, albeit sluggishly. The longer I lingered in bed, the more my limbs began to seize up again. It would require a quick dash across the bedroom and past the open window to retrieve my dressing gown. Heaven forbid a curious tourist happen to glance up at the window.

" _Ha ha_ " George murmurs with the rolling of his eyes. With that, he disappears. I wasn't entirely sure what my day would entail, besides visiting Emily. Then again, with my mother suddenly present I suspected much of my morning would be spent engaging in idle chat. She would, no doubt, find cause to cry other something else my idiot brother Nevin had done.

"Good morning, darling" that oh-so familiar voice calls. I look to the doorway that had only moments ago been occupied by George. Now my mother stood there, well-dressed and immaculate, with little Edith in her arms. I suddenly become aware of not just how messy my hair is, but how _bare_ I am.

"Good morning" I practically squeak, seizing the covers and pulling them up to my chin, "Might I ask why you're here?". My mother tuts.

"Why shouldn't I want to call by?" she asks, "How selfish it is of me to want to see my youngest grandchild". She holds Edith's chubby fist in her own and plants a kiss atop the thin curls that grow  on her head. She did so _love_ children.

"You shouldn't drink before bed, dear" she advises, casting a disapproving glance over the bottle of red standing empty on the beside table.

"You always used to have scotch of an evening" I protest instinctively. Even in my forties, I was arguing against the woman as a teenager might. I should have known better. She fixes me with a sharp stare. Even if mother's did not always know best, it was worth making them think that they did.

"Your brother seems to drink us dry lately" my mother complains, still hanging about the doorway for reasons beyond my comprehension, "Oh that poor boy."

"Don't feel so sorry for Nevin, Mother, it's entirely self-inflicted" I reply. I was running out of sympathy where my elder brother was concerned. I'd always tried to be kind, but he was nothing short of a mess these days.

"He's handing in his resignation, you know" my mother wails on, holding poor Edith ever closer to her bosom as she begins to weep, "A career, ruined". I roll my eyes, sure she was too caught up in her own grief to notice.

"Perhaps he'll remember to pay his taxes in future, then" is my simple retort.

"We'll go bankrupt, you know" my mother weeps, finally tearing herself from the doorway and making her way towards the sitting room, "The house will have to go. Our land sold. The children forced to do _paper rounds_ and the like". On and on she rambles, until I can barely hear her.

I seize the opportunity and leap out of bed, snatching up my dressing gown and fastening it about my middle. Slippers slid on, a quick brush of my hair, and I'm ready to face her properly. "It's a very small place, this" I hear her say. No doubt I'd be given a list of decorative improvements to make by the end of her visit. With a sigh, and a quick rub of my temple, I join her in the sitting room. Survival would be a struggle, but I'd give it a go.

"Would you care for tea, Mother?"


	123. Take Back Control.

**1st May, 2016.**

**Downing Street, London.**

_Emily was home_. Away from her father and the chaos of London, but, to me, _home_. I'd been quite intent on welcoming her back into what should have been an ideal place, where she could relax in the pure tranquility of the Oxfordshire countryside and practice on the family piano. Schoolwork had been sent to her, but wasn't essential. I wanted her to be happy. Reality hadn't been quite so harmonious, however, as I'd neglected to factor my brother into the equation.

Having sat Emily down, and passed by my crying sister-in-law in a neighbouring room, Alex and I found Nevin in his study, the space he often consigned himself to when trying to avoid responsibility. Curtains shut, papers and glasses covering what had always been a meticulously tidy desk in my father's day, he hid from the world as though _he_ was its victim.

" _Are you going to resign?_ " Alex had asked, admirably sensitive. My brother had set down his whisky and laughed. I wasn't entirely sure what was warranted his laughter. I'd long since run out of sympathy.

" _Handed in my resignation this morning_ " my brother had said, swallowing hard. I knew how he'd adored his job as a councillor, and I could not deny that he'd worked hard in the role, but his demise was entirely of his own making.

" _So what do you intend to do now?_ " I had quizzed. I wouldn't allow him to rest on his laurels for too long. He was no longer as rich as Croesus. The estate needed stability if it was to survive.

" _I don't know_ " had been Nevin's lacklustre reply, as he reached towards a full decanter. I had pulled it away from him before he could touch it.

" _This estate is haemorrhaging money all over the place. The accounts need sorting now_ " I'd shot, watching as he winced, "Get it done."

" _I'll try_ " my brother had mumbled, sinking into his chair like the pathetic specimen he had become.

" _Yes, you certainly shall try_ " I had enforced, ignoring the worried look Alex had given me, " _Or I'll do it for you_."

The weeks had passed by, and, perhaps unpredictably, Nevin had not tried. No attempt had been made to mop up the mess he'd made of the family finances. Part of me wished to feel sorry for him, but the lessons I'd learned from my father about responsibility persuaded me otherwise. And so here I now sat, neglecting the Lords for another day, surrounded by papers.

"Mother thinks it a good idea" Helena speaks from my laptop. She'd laughed very hard indeed when I'd told her I still struggled with things like Skype. Alex had been just as amused when I'd asked for his help in adding an attachment to an email.

"I've never managed an estate in my life" I sigh, scratching my head as I examined yet another worrying invoice, "You know how Father always used to select Nevin for those sorts of things". I'd never once doubted that my father cared for me, and had proved very supportive in his later years, but I hadn't seen so fond of his methods while a teenager. Often he'd take Nevin to the office, teaching him the ways of business and finance, while I was sent to _ballet lessons_. My experience playing the Sugar Plum Fairy would not, I didn't think, help me to sort our family's troubles.

"You can't fuck up any more than Nevin has" Helena giggles, "You ought to take his shares in the family business too". _Family business_. It had ceased to be that when my father had died. We weren't entirely cut out, and I thought Isaac's father made a decent CEO, but I thought it a great shame that our power over it all had been reduced to a small influence. "I'm not a businesswoman" I remind my sister.

"You've got a First in Mathematics" she reminds me, "That should serve you well". I ignore any further suggestions that I mount a full-scale takeover of Nevin's affairs and change the subject.

"Did you catch Question Time the other night?" I ask. I knew I'd inadvertently opened the way for a fresh debate on Europe, but I allow Helena to answer all the same. "I did" she tells me, "Farage didn't seem too fond of you". _The feeling was mutual._

_"Just look at the sorts now leading the Remain campaign" he says, the makeup powdered on his aging face becoming moist with sweat under the somewhat intense lighting of the studio, "Its become a Nelson-Cameron clan stitch up". I roll my eyes. That doesn't go unnoticed._

_"You may roll your eyes, Mrs Osborne" Farage argues, "But the idea that you, your cousin and your husband have even the faintest idea what the ordinary person wants is, frankly, laughable". He is met with applause. I'd already been labelled a sellout at least three times this evening, and a turncoat by about two audience members. Even in my native Oxfordshire, a relatively safe place for Europhiles, my less than supportive past was not being overlooked._

_"That's an odd lecture coming from a city boy educated at Dulwich College" I swipe. I feel slightly more at ease when that too is applauded._

_"I don't pretend to have any deep understanding of what life is like for those who aren't well-off. I've been very lucky in life. I've always appreciated that" I add, internally bored by yet another discussion of class, "But I do at least have the advantage of past form with those in Europe. I've negotiated with countless foreign ministers and delegations. I know how this insitution works."_

_"Then you ought to know what a complete and utter mess it is" Farage interjects, "And indeed you do know. You've said repeatedly in the past that you dislike the European Union."_

_"But to keep your husband and your gang of London elites happy, you've totally sold out" the man rabbits on, pointing a pen in my direction, "You're not a stupid woman, Mrs Osborne, you know exactly what is wrong with the EU. Pluck up a bit of courage, for once". More applause. Not since my involvement in Iraq had I felt quite so lost on a television programme. Those sat before me in the audience were precisely the sort we had to win over if Remain was to win. Alex and others had been keen to tout me as some great asset to the campaign. I was right to have been more sceptical._

_"We really must move on" David Dimbleby says, attempting to break up our exchange before it could escalate. I clear my throat and straighten myself up just a little bit more. "Actually, David" I say, "I'd like to briefly challenge something Kirsten Farage's husband has said repeatedly since this programme began". I can already see an amused smile dancing on the lips of Yvette Cooper on my left._

_"I'm not entirely sure if it's an attempt to mock or belittle me, but I have to say the 'Mrs Osborne' routine is becoming rather tiresome" I state firmly, "I am not my husband. Nor am I defined by everything he happens to say or do. I haven't suddenly become acquiescent now that I'm married."_

_"And also, if I may, if you are going to get my surname wrong, at least take the time to remember my title" I say, now feigning a smile, "It isn't 'Mrs', it's 'Lady'."_

_I sit back in my chair again as the audience applaud again. A handful of women near the back even cheer. Farage grins to himself, in his usual unnerving way. I had certainly seen a twitch when I'd referred to him as 'Kirsten Farage's husband'. I think I'd made my point by now._

_"Now if we could just conclude this particularly entertaining episode" Dimbleby smiles, "There is plenty more for you to disagree on."_

Helena chuckles to herself in memory of it. I had since seen a number of young women on Twitter declaring it a feminist highlight. I wasn't at all sure that was what I intended it to be. Farage was no raging misogynist, just rather insensitive. There was a touch of the Neanderthal about him, not that I'd ever admit as much to his face.

"You ought to scribble out his name on every Remain leaflet and write 'Kirsten Farage's husband' instead" Helena suggests happily, "Give the bastard a taste of his own medicine."

"I'm heading out this afternoon, actually" I tell her, returning my attention to the account spread around me. I'd not been leafleting for quite some time now. I'd always enjoyed going out onto the street and meeting people. A campaign would never be complete without a fair bit of canvassing.

"Any other famous faces joining you?" Helena asks, "You know, I think I read that Keira Knightley intends to vote Remain". I did feel our message would be slightly easier to put across if she took to the streets with us.

"I know I'd be content in the company of Keira Knightley" I sigh, prompting a smirk from my sister on the screen of my laptop, "Alas, I must make do with _Nick Clegg_ for now."

"Clegg is rather dishy" Helena says, stroking her chin thoughtfully, "I think I could work quite happily with him". If only the slate between Clegg and myself was so clean. I couldn't actually think of a time in which we'd liked each other.

"You get onto Keira for me, and I shall lend Clegg to you" I offer. Helena could speak multiple languages. That had to draw him in to a degree, surely? As for myself and the lovely Keira Knightley, I liked to think I could rely on charm alone.

"You're in London. There won't be many nutters about" Helena chirps brightly. I wasn't sure how the label 'nutters' would draw people _away_ from the Leave campaign.

"It's much safer here" I admit, "Finally, a city willing to believe George."

"Traitor."

* * *

A newspaper is shoved in my direction. I'd been keen on avoiding this particular man's house, but its front door had opened almost instinctively the moment I passed by. Our time out of the streets had been reasonably slow-going but not unpleasant, with the vast majority of those we spoke to happy to listen. This particular chap, however, wasn't quite as struck.

"Look at that" he says, pointing to the battered newspaper he had cast to me, "Look at that there". I tear my eyes from the bright red _Take Back Contro_ l sign pinned in the man's window and look at the article he was so obviously keen on. _BRITAIN'S REAL MONARCHY: The Formidable Network of the Nelson-Cameron Clan_. The Sun did love their flashy headlines. Below the article, a picture of myself and David had been printed, with our heads placed on the bodies of Elizabeth I and Henry VIII respectively. The article was nothing of great worth, a dull list of the great many connections our families had in politics and journalism and finance. It all seemed slightly trumped up to me, but the man who stands before me is quite convinced.

"Why should I listen to you?" he demands as he takes back the newspaper, which was certainly one way of taking back control, "You're all the same, you lot". Other volunteers nearby stop to look over. I nod to them and smile. Perhaps Helena had been right to warn me about nutters?

"You're right, we are the same" I nod, "Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage are every bit as elitist."

"Farage wants what's best for us!" the man yells at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tired looking man in a blue jumper step nearer.

"Well if that's your opinion" I say, "I see little point in speaking to you". I walk away before the man can rant at me any further. I find I can laugh about the encounter with my fellow campaigners. It was really very rare to find a Leave supporter in the heart of London, and indeed one so _passionate_. I almost admired him.

"Surely you should have tried to reason with him?" Clegg says, appearing by my side. Going out alongside him had worked well for the cameras. Our side looked progressive, _harmonious_. It was known by most competent journalists that Clegg and I were not friends, yet we appeared content in one another's company in the photos that would no doubt make their way into tomorrow's papers.

"There's little point in reasoning with the unreasonable" I reply. I'd left Downing Street with the intention of avoiding awkwardness with Clegg, but still struggled. "I know you're not quite as dedicated as most of those in our team" the man speaks quietly, "But challenging people like that man reflects well on us."

"Or, alternatively, I could save my breath for someone a little more open-minded" I argue, "And don't accuse me of being half-hearted, Clegg. You know I don't love the EU as you do". The Lib Dems were _infatuated_. I found it most bizarre.

"Will we be hearing of a defection soon?" Clegg goes on, tone light despire the obvious tensions between us, "You've hardened in your old age". I scoff.

"The opinions I hold on Europe now are identical to those I held ten years ago" I tell him, "It's called _consistency_ , Clegg, you should try it". Silence falls yet again. My mother would tell me off for my poor conversation skills, but I found I wasn't too bothered.

"I know you're not particularly fond of me" Nick says, stopping in the middle of the pavement, "I can't say I'm overly fond of you. We do, however, have something in common here."

"This referendum is bigger than either of us" he adds, tone now stern, "Work with me, not against me". _I'm working with you now_. I'm tempted to bicker with him further, but something stops me. There was truth to what he said. I didn't have to _like_ the man, just cooperate with him. I could hardly accuse the Liberal Democrats of being an irritation while being so _bitter_.

"Alright" I sigh, offering a handshake in conciliation, "Lets try again". Clegg smiles and gives my hand a hearty shake.

"In aid of this new alliance" he says as we continue our slow journey down the street, "Shall we go for a coffee when we're done?". I'm quite taken aback. Coffee with Clegg. I'd have actually considered it had I not already recalled a clash in my diary.

"Alas, I must snub you already" I confess, "I'm booked elsewhere". I'd been rather looking forward to my later engagement, so I certainly wouldn't cancel.

"A shame" Nick replies, still smiling, "And for whom are you ditching me?". I chuckle.

"Paul Merton and Ian Hislop" I answer, quiet excitement already building, "And a small studio somewhere in the BBC."

* * *

"Are you voting in the mayoral contest?". Ian springs a question on me the first chance he gets. He was quite fond of interrogating me between takes. Programmes like Have I Got News For You took hours to record. I shuffle the cue cards in front of me and look towards Ian.

"I'm not registered here, unfortunately" I tell him, "George Galloway shall have to make do without my support". Ian scrunches his chubby face up as the audience titter. I'd been far too occupied by other events to even think about upcoming elections. Though I had already decided who I would have voted for in London, had I the opportunity to do so. It wasn't a choice George or David would be pleased with.

"Who would you vote for?" Ian presses, asking the inevitable. I knew he was expecting me to say Zac Goldsmith, the Tory candidate, but on this occasion I have to disappoint him.

"Sadiq Khan" I beam, pride rising at the thought of my old friend winning such an important contest. I unexpectedly find myself applauded by the audience before me. It seemed Goldsmith was not the people's favourite.

"So you've not converted then?" the BBC journalist to my left, a rather pleasant lady by the name of Kirsty Wark. Not you as well. Was this to be the latest rumour about me circulating Westminster? I couldn't rate it for its originality. I'd been accused of plotting a jump to the Tories ever since my resignation from the red side in 2014.

"I haven't converted, no" I answer truthfully, "I can say confidently that I am _not_ a Conservative. I've not sunk that low just yet". David would hit me, but those around me seemed to appreciate it. The visiting comedian to my right, alarmingly tall but usually rather witty, grins to himself.

"You'll sink low for _one_ Conservative" Greg Davies remarks. Silence descends for a second or two as the panel and the audience process the joke. I roll my eyes as some snort and some groan.

" _Pig_ " I shoot. Paul's eyes now light up. He'd been astonishingly quiet until now.

"Are we back to David Cameron?" he asks. I bite my lip in an effort not to laugh. David would _definitely_ hit me. From behind the cameras ahead the crew signal to me.

"Come on, now" I clear my throat, "Concentrate". We had been discussing Scottish politics before we'd been interrupted on a technicality.

"Who is the one to watch in Scotland?" I ask the panel. Naturally, Ian has the answer.

"Ruth Davidson" he says, tapping his pen on the desk, "Much of the Tories' campaign in Scotland has been focused around her. She's ridden cows, _tanks_ ". A photo of Ruth sat upon said tank flashes up on the monitor. The audience chuckle at what was admittedly an amusing image.

"Oh, but she is lovely, isn't she?" I sigh, finding it refreshing despite the hilarity of it. I'd always had something of a soft spot for her, as was well documented in my actions at the infamous pride parade of 2012.

"Liz, _no_ " Paul cries in jest, "Don't move on to another one."

"She's getting through them, isn't she?" Davies chips in, while I struggle all the more to keep myself composed.

"Is this what you've been doing since you quit?" Paul jokes, reaching for his water, " _Sod the Lords, I'm going to shag my way through the Conservative Party_ ". I don't bother to stifle my laughter now. It was a poor joke to make, but undoubtedly funny. I was very glad I chose to come here rather than join Clegg, even if the coffee offered was good.

" _Moving on_ " I say loudly, wiping a stray tear from the corner of my eye, "I don't suppose any one wants to talk about the referendum?". The crew nod, but the panellists stare. Their silence makes the audience titter all the more.

"I can't be bothered to be honest with you" Paul admits. I sensed another tangent brewing as we ground to a halt yet again. I'd end up finishing late, but I was enjoying myself too much to care.

"Who else is on your Tory target list?" is Kirsty Wark's surprising question. I stroke my chin thoughtfully.

"It's got to be Jacob Rees-Mogg, surely" Ian suggests, "You could do a bit of Jacob, couldn't you?". He was certainly a gentleman. I give Ian a wink and shrug.

"I could do a lot of Jacob" I reply jocularly. Something else I'd get told off for when back at Downing Street. I couldn't stand a stuffy politician. I failed to see why the poor British public should be subjected to such boredom.

"Does any one else remember what this programme used to be like?" I snort, "This is a complete mess". Paul and the audience laugh to themselves whilst Ian buries his head in his hands.

_At least we'd avoided the referendum._

* * *

" _You elitist shill_ ". I bark at my husband as he makes for the lounge, deserting me as I try to clean up after dinner. "I beg your pardon?" George says, turning on his heel.

"Don't disappear" I instruct, "Put those plates away". Dragging his feet, he joins me once more at the counter. I didn't know what else he had to do. Only a few moments ago he'd been celebrating the fact he'd cleared all his red boxes.

"I sometimes wonder whether we ought to get someone in to do this" he mumbles to himself. Where he'd got such notions from, I did not know. His mother would have clipped him around the ear for suggesting such a thing. I feared it was the aristocrats on my side who had influenced him so. "You see" I poke, " _Elitist shill_."

"You met a Leave voter, didn't you?" he predicts, almost dropping the clean plates I'd neatly stacked.

"They do exist in London, much to my surprise" I tell him, "He seemed to set in his ways. I'd have thought whatever Brexiteers linger here would be at least a little more flexible". George sighs heavily. He'd avoided talking about his day. I could only presume he'd had an EU-related encounter not too remote from mine.

"What's wrong?" I ask. George casts his eyes down to the stack of plates he holds. I watch with furrowed brows as he attempts to distract himself with them, pretending to forget which cupboard the plates belonged to.

"George."

"Yes?"

" _What's wrong_?"

"Nothing"

"Don't try that again". I shoot him a sharp stare to make the point. I was sure he forgot we were married at times. I'd learnt to be more of an open book, yet he always had to be nudged before admitting any vulnerabilities.

"I suppose I can't really shake the feeling that our message isn't, well, _clicking_ " he speaks quietly, as though fearing David would leap out from a nearby cupboard and scold him, "It's just not working, Liz". I knew he was right, as unfortunate as that was.

"But what are we to do?" I query, for once out of suggestions, "The only improvement I could suggest that might sway some is a little less _scaremongering_ on the economy". I give him a knowing look. Even when flanked by the nation's best and most influential, George's forecasts didn't appear _solid_.

"The economy is our strongest card" he argues.

"Not when you only seek to scare people, it isn't" I remind him, "We can't rely on fear any more. We ought to be a little more positive". It was difficult to sell a campaign built out of warnings and loose forecasts. As much as I distrusted them, the Vote Leave side had instilled a degree of optimism and courage in their campaign.

George studies me with narrowed eyes. "Have you thought about appearing in any of the Brexit debates later in the month?" he questions. After Question Time, I wasn't at all convinced such a thing would be sensible.

"Oh, I don't think so" I tell him, putting away the last of the clean cutlery, "I've no interest."

"I could talk to David" George goes on, clinging to the idea, "We could have a word with the press team, get their ideas". Drying my hands on a towel, I shake my head. Better advocates existed. It had been made abundantly clear to me that my scepticism about Europe did not erase the fact that I was one of Farage's dreaded _liberal metropolitan elites_.

"No thank you" I say firmly, "I'd rather lay low". Had I not retired from the Commons to relax? Did I really want to be so involved in this referendum, particularly when I found constant discussion of it to be so tiring? Or was it my duty to be enthusiastic?

"It's your loss" George says with a jerk of his head, flipping the switch of the kettle.  A cup of tea seemed appropriate. With Edith asleep, George would no doubt spend the next hour or so glued to whatever sci-fi show he'd got hooked on now. I, on the other hand, would call Emily. The thought of doing so makes me very happy indeed.

"My loss" I smile, stretching as the late hour begins to take its toll on my aging limbs, "And the country's gain."


	124. Boris.

**10th May, 2016.**

**Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.**

_A thin piece of green paper is pushed across polished wood. I slide the cheque hard enough to wake my brother from another of his drink-and-pity-induced stupors. Our Mother had lost faith, his wife had practically barred him from seeing their young son while in such a state and I was told his elder daughter had actually shouted at him one evening. Enough was enough. I'd taken the time to think things over, and consult the necessary documents, and I'd made a decision._

_"What's this?" Nevin asks groggily, reaching up to feel his aching head. I make no attempt to lower my voice. If it pained him, that was tough. He'd only ever been discouraged from indulging in alcohol._

_"It's a cheque" I tell him. I wouldn't announce the amount in a place where I might be overheard by the children, so I wait for him to take it. I watch as his eyebrows rise further and further up his scalp._

_"That much?" he exclaims, "Is this some elaborate rehab scheme?". I offer only a small laugh. I'd entered the room with a clear agenda, and I meant to stick to it. "No, no" I correct, "You can pay for that yourself". I clear my throat and straighten my back. Do it._

_"I'm buying the house" I state. Nevin blinks at me. Several feelings seem to pass through his eyes at once. Confusion, sadness, anger, sorry, relief. He glances down at the cheque once more._

_"The estate is worth about half of this" my brother points out, offering it to me again, "Why so much?". I refuse. It something of a large sum, something I'd be particularly embarrassed about should  it ever end up in the tabloids._

_"I'm buying your stake in the family firm" I inform him, head held high. I had to appear determined whatever my internal anxieties. There was one small side of me that wanted to cut Nevin a bit of slack. That small side is soon replaced by a much harsher one._

_"The business should be in Nelson hands" I add before my brother can attack me, "I can repair our reputation. You can't". Yet no attack comes. I wait in relative silence while he studies the cheque yet again._

_"Having those shares doesn't make you the boss" Nevin says quietly, "I should know."_

_"I've already spoken to its CEO, Mr Freidman" I reply, "The business is looking for a new chairman. I said I'd consider it". I hadn't really intended to delve into business. I still wasn't quite convinced it was my thing, but I had been convinced there was no alternative. For my father's sake, I'd reclaim it. I could work it around my schedule, easily._

_"Freidman never bothered to meet with me" Nevin grumbles._

_"And what does that tell you?"._

Another voice forces me from the memory. I look up and rub my eyes. For an hour or two I'd been staring at my laptop, pouring over the paperwork necessary in my well-intentioned takeover. I glance over my shoulder to see George poking his head around the door of the sitting room.

"Liz, she's here" George says, as though not for the first time. Given that he worked on the ground floor, I'd asked him to keep an eye out. Emily had come down to London to spend a day with her father, but I'd asked that she be driven here the morning after. It was a busy environment, but our apartment would serve as a decent retreat. It was a relatively sunny day, too. I was tempted to sit out in the garden.

I lock my laptop and follow George downstairs. He disappears into his office again while I practically skip down the corridor towards the back of the house. I found I enjoyed my time with Emily all the more now. She'd never blamed me for the depression she'd sunk into, but I wasn't so convinced. I was determined to see her happy again, and she had certainly been improving up in Oxfordshire.

"I'm sorry there's so much security" I say, embracing her warmly as she climbs out of the back of a black car, "Still, you're here now". I ignore the stares of nearby staff members who wait for us to move, and hug her just a little longer.

"Come on" I say, eventually pulling back and gently taking her hand, "Let's have a cup of tea". Emily's eyes roam the building as she enters. It wasn't the White House, but there was something mildly grand about the place. The old portraits lining the walls of the corridor we walk along fascinate her most.

"It's quite impressive actually" she says, eyes lighting up ever so slightly, "Do you enjoy living here, Mother?".

"Most of the time, yes" I answer truthfully, "Though I'm sorry you're not here with me". Emily looks down at her feet. I would have moved her in with me last year, had I not been worried about the hectic environment of the place. George couldn't live elsewhere, I couldn't take Edith up to Oxfordshire with me on a permanent basis. It was not a simple situation, but I was confident of finding some kind of resolution. Keeping everyone happy was a struggle, but a necessary one.

"I've asked Father if I can move back down to London soon" Emily tells me, "I'd like to go back to school."

"Are you sure?" I ask, "Wouldn't you prefer a little more time to recuperate? It's no bother, you know". I was sure something could be arranged with her school so she could sit her GCSEs a little later than her peers. I didn't think pilling additional strain on her was wise.

"I'd rather go back" Emily decides, holding her head just a few inches higher, "I think school could help me. I don't want to be idle forever". She was definitely my daughter.

"If that's what you want to do" I smile, "Go for it. And if you're returning to London, you can always spend part of your week here". Emily looks up hopefully.

"I thought you were against the idea of me staying here" she, _correctly_ , assesses.

"I've changed my mind" I admit, "Life here isn't that manic."

" _Fuck off_."

A loud shout from a nearby meeting room catches us by surprise. Emily's eyes widen, muscles tightening instinctively. There was little I could do to shield her from the barrage of insults that are soon being thrown about the room. Even through a shut door I could hear their voices, raised in anger, distinct and unmistakable. Yet again, David and Boris were arguing. How they managed to cling on to what was left of their friendship, I did not know.

"What's going on?" Emily asks quietly, visibly alarmed. I sigh and lead her further down the corridor. Past the staircase and through the intervening door between numbers ten and eleven, I find an office not poisoned by curses. "George" I call, stirring the man who yawns over his red boxes, "Put the kettle on". George looks up with weary eyes and nods.

"Excuse me for a moment" I smile, giving Emily another reassuring nod. She seemed to relax when George began to talk to her, asking which piano piece she was working on now. I leave behind a conversation about Chopin and make for No. 10 again. The moment I enter David's patch once more, I hear the argument. But what was it about?

It wasn't simply curiosity that brought me over. Prolonged bickering would only upset Emily. I'd already made it clear to David that he was to avoid causing a fuss. Fights were not common in Downing Street, but not entirely unheard of. I linger outside the door to the room in question, rather like a soldier waiting to emerge into no man's land.

"Will you stop with the ridiculous attempts to undermine me?" I hear David spit, "We both agreed we'd fight this thing cleanly."

"Nonsense, nonsense" Boris babbles in the usual fashion.

"What's nonsense, Boris, is you pretending to believe the rubbish spouted by Gove and Leadsom" David roars on, "If you could stop focusing on your own fucking career for a moment-"

"That's a total fabrication and you know it" Boris fights back, not as angry as David but hardly calm, "Stop with this lunacy."

" _Lunacy_? You want my job!". I roll my eyes. They'd go on like this for hours unless someone intervened. Luckily, I was prepared to do just that. And so I take hold of the door knob and push.

"If you don't shut up in the next few moments" I interject, "You'll both be too dead to do any job". Boris nods to me politely, whilst David casts a disapproving scowl in my direction. It was at moments like these that I was reminded of the irritating, snobbish boy I'd grown up with.

"This is a private conversation" he snarls.

"Not when I can hear you from the other side of the building it isn't" I reply firmly, "Emily is here, and I'd rather she wasn't subjected to your bickering". Again, Boris nods. I was beginning to suspect it was David who had initiated the argument.

"Oh, she's fine" David dismisses with a wave of his hand.

"No, David, she's not fine" I snap. Boris edges closer to the door. I wouldn't argue with David as he had just done, but I wasn't content to leave just yet. I'd not have David disregard Emily so readily.

"If it's such a problem, why bring her here?" David presses, sinking down into the chair behind his desk, "Send her elsewhere."

"Or, alternatively, you could stop acting like a pugnacious prick and calm down" I warn, "Your children are upstairs, aren't they?". David nods without a word. His expression maintains its anger, but remorse begins to build in his eyes. No doubt there was some vulnerability or other at the heart of his anger, but I was too irritated to care.

"Calm down" I assert quietly. David looks away and says nothing. I turn to Boris, who looks ready to leap from the window.

"Is there something we can help you with, Boris?" I ask. The man ruffles his already messy blonde locks and makes another of his bizarre noises.

"No, no" he answers. I open the door again and step back to let him through into the corridor. No doubt the civil servants would thank me later. A temporary ceasefire had been settled upon.

"Then I suggest you cycle on home" I say, "Good day". I follow him from the room and shut the door without another word to David. I could imagine him moaning to George about how unfair I'd been later, but I wasn't too bothered. Now, to return to Emily.

"Elizabeth!" Boris' annoyingly familiar voice calls. I stop just as I reach the intervening door to No. 11 and turn on my heel. Like a bumbling elephant, he jogs after me. He'd now recovered his cycling helmet. The man really was a parody of himself.

"I didn't incite that ruckus" he insists, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, truly". I narrow my eyes at him. Boris was fairly harmless, yet there was something suspicious about the way he spoke to me. He'd never been rude to me, only polite, but on this occasion he seemed to be too polite.

"It's quite alright, Boris" I say, "I'm inclined to believe you". The man nods vigorously.

"I wouldn't want you to think me some sort of berk" Boris adds with a flick of the yellow mop he called hair. _Why did he care what I thought? Why was he so keen on me thinking well of him? Did he hope I'd report to George?_

My eyes narrow all the more. _Of course_. Even in George's diminished state within his party, he was still a key figure. And I, quite conveniently, was his closest confidante. I study the man before me quickly, noting the way his eyes wandered about the lobby. The more I think on it, the more it seems to make sense. _An endorsement from George would certainly please any vengeful liberals in the event of a coup against David._

"I'll be sure to tell my husband of your charity" I smile, veiling my sarcasm well, "Perhaps you'd like to measure the drapes while you're here?". I leave him to scratch at his head and disappear into No. 11. I'd neglected Emily for far too long. I'd asked her here to spend time with her, not occupy myself with petty Tory politics. Of course, my suspicions would play on my mind for the rest of the day, but I would be sure to keep them from Emily.

"I do apologise" I say, appearing in George's office once more. He sits behind his desk again, cup of coffee in hand, cheerfully chatting away to Emily, who sips at her own drink.

"You never said George had such an interest in classical music, Mother" she beams. George winks at me. He was no avid fan, so had clearly been doing his research.

"He went to St Paul's too" I tell her, "He's cultured". I'm suddenly reminded of the racket he'd made playing his N.W.A albums on full blast at halls at university. His fellow students at Magdalen had not been best pleased, thought it was certainly a break from Mozart.

"What was the fight about?" Emily asks, no longer frightened. George arches an eyebrow. I was surprised he hadn't overheard it.

"What fight?" he asks curiously. I shake my head at him. _Boris could wait_.

"Never mind that, it's all sorted" I say, "Now I say we make the most of the sunshine and take our tea into the garden". Emily nods and joins me by the doorway with her mug in hand.

"I'll suffer alone, then" George laments, sighing as he remembers his red box.

"Chancellors always suffer" I joke. Emily giggles behind her hand and waits for me to lead the way to the back of the house. I wave to George mockingly, collect the particularly milky tea he had made me and head for the garden.

* * *

Emily itches at her wrists tentatively. I had noticed earlier that whenever the sleeves of her jump began to ride up her arms, she forced them down. The skin just below her palms was unfailingly concealed, and only ever touched lightly. She seemed to flinch when she scratched too hard. I'd thought about avoiding the subject all together, but remembered that her troubles had only ever been exacerbated by a lack of communication. _These things needed to be talked about_. And so, gently, I turn my eyes to the wounds she so adamantly hid.

"Do they sting?" I ask.

"Not really. They can be quite itchy sometimes" Emily answers, ignoring her sleeves for a moment and focusing on a particularly fine rose growing nearby, "I don't like to look at them for too long. They make me sad". The bandages had gone, but the memories remained. As they would for quite some time.

"Are you sad now?". I keep my voice low. The garden was pleasant and peaceful, a decent distance away from the house. No further tirades of David's would be heard here.

"Not really. When I wake up, I feel bad. And quite often before I go to sleep, I start to dwell on things and upset myself" Emily tells me frankly, and I find I hugely admire her honesty, "But during the day when I'm with Father, or Grandma, or Alex, or _you_. I feel better then."

"We're always here for you. _All of us_ " I remind her, "You never have to go through any thing like that alone. Never again". Emily rests her head on my shoulder and shuts her eyes. I was glad she felt safe here. Increasingly, I found my decision to keep her away from Downing Street to be a stupid one.

"I don't want to die, Mother" Emily whispers. I was glad her eyes were closed. I do my best to veil the emotion in my voice but make no attempt to stem the tears I find building in my eyes. How I'd ever neglected her, for even a second, I did not know. She was sixteen years old. _She deserved better_.

"You won't die" I struggle to say, "You'll stay here with me, where you're safe". A pleasant silence descends, and for several moments I wonder whether Emily had nodded off. I didn't mind. I felt entirely comfortable here, with her. I didn't want to go back inside and face the anger and dull frustration that lingered there.

"Shall we have another cup of tea, Mother?" Emily asks, rising suddenly. I turn my face and wipe away the tears clinging to my cheeks. She was smarter than that, but I still wouldn't let her see me cry. "Of course" I nod, sporting as strong a smile as I can muster, "I'll get George to make one."

"You are dreadful to him sometimes" Emily giggles, picking up her empty mug.

"I'm allowed to be."

* * *

"Whisky, Lord Sugar?". I glance up from the screen of my laptop and roll my eyes. It was ten o'clock, both daughters were sleeping peacefully in a room down the hall, and I was attempting to catch up on work I'd left alone for much of the day. Emily was more important, however desperate the family finances were.

"Are you worried I'll grow more powerful than you now that I'm a _businesswoman_?" I query. A glass of whisky is handed to me. I sip at it immediately. Official documents and legal agreements could be terribly dry. It was like being a minister all over again.

"Naturally, I'll hike up business taxes now you're involved" George jokes, brushing aside some of my papers so that he could sit beside me, "I can't be seen to be helping you". _The dreaded dictator Nelson expands her empire by shutting her own brother out_. The press would simply adore my latest career move.

"What happened to only taking the estate?" George asks. It was a fair question. The memory of my father was my greatest incentive in buying up my brother's stake in the old family business. It should never have been the old family business. I was perfectly happy for Mr Freidman to continue running it, but Nelson hands had to be involved somewhere. "You can manage an estate" George continues, "Can you chair a business?"

I frown at him. "You're supposed to support me" I complain. In fairness, I had first dismissed the idea of getting involved with the business due to my lack of experience in the area. First inviting Emily to Downing Street, and now this. Something had clearly injected some fragility into my nerves.

"I do support you" George defends, "I'm simply curious about your sudden change of heart."

"Do you know what I think it is?" he theorises, "You're _bored_ ". I stop typing and look to him sceptically. Bored. He made me sound like a trapped housewife. The few days after the Panama scandal had certainly been boring. I no longer felt restrained by that episode, however, and so boredom was unnecessary.

"You're not an MP any more, nor a cabinet minister of any kind. You've no rigid commitments in the Lords" George explains, "You write a column when you like. You meet for tea with friends. Otherwise, you stay here with Edith or call by Alex's office". Yet again I roll my eyes. He had more or less summed up by existence, but I didn't like to hear it so _plainly_.

"Thank you for trivialising my life" I grumble. George holds his hands up in defence.

"I mean nothing by it" he insists, "I think it's good for you to try something different". I pat him on the arm. He had at least attempted to justify himself. Was my life really as dull as he made it seem? My decisions of late may have been erratic, but they had made my days a bit different.

"I'm forty-four" I say proudly, "I shan't waste away into submission just yet". I'd begun to forget just how busy I'd been as an MP. The last twelve months or so had been like a prolonged holiday. I _was_ bored. I curse silently. _Of course he had to be right_.

"I suppose that means a family of five is off the cards" George chuckles to himself. I snort at the thought. It would have made my mother very happy, but I couldn't see myself dedicating the next few years to the continual production of children.

"If you wanted such a large family, you should have married me sooner" I joke. I was a _Catholic_ , after all.

"I might have done had you not run away from me in '94" George swipes with an odd smirk. I hit him lightly on the shoulder. Even if I didn't appreciate the joke, it was refreshing to be able to treat that sorry business with a degree of humour. _1994_. It seemed like an age ago.

"Speaking of '94" George crosses with a yawn. I smack his feet away from the coffee table as he attempts to raise them there. I wouldn't have him spill whisky on the paperwork I'd already been slaving over. "How _is_ Alex?".

"Shush" I urge, glancing back towards the hallway. I'd not heard a sound from the room in which Emily rested, but still couldn't be sure. " _Emily doesn't know_ " I tell George.

"I barely said anything" he scoffs.

"You're not to mention any of it while Emily is around. Not even the mildest of allusions" I instill, conscious of speaking too loudly, "She's still frail. I've no way of telling how she'd react". I didn't doubt that she would still recognise Alex as her brother, but I feared she would despise the fact she had been lied to. _Now was not the time_. She'd have to learn eventually. _Eventually_.

"I shan't say a word about it" George promises, nosing st what it is I type on my laptop, "Say, that book that old aide of yours is writing. How detailed is it to be?". I resist the urge to laugh. Jonathan's book had given me the opportunity to spill on David and George's more amusing mishaps, but there was nothing seriously embarrassing.

"I've not revealed any intimate secrets, you needn't worry" I reassure him with a faint grin.

" _Liz_ " George speaks, seriously this time, as he gives me a knowing look. '94. Did Jonathan know about '94? I'd always scooted around the subject. Yet my words to him in preparation for the book return to me. _If I am to share, I need to share all of it._

"Jonathan doesn't know" I say, " _Yet_ ". George chokes on his drink.

"You're going to tell him?" he cries, "Liz, he can't print that". Again, I look to the hallway. I could only hope Emily was a heavy sleeper. Regardless, I hush George with a finger.

"Perhaps not yet" I say honestly, "But I intend to tell him at some point. Biographies ought be truthful, don't you think?". George shakes his head. He was justified if he was worried about a media frenzy. I was worried too. But, increasingly, I began to feel total honesty was best.

"I need another drink" George sighs, downing the last of his whisky. I finish my own and set my laptop down on his lap. "Stay there" I instruct, taking his empty glass from him, "I'll go". The weariness fades from his face, and now he is looking up to me with an amused smile.

"Good Heavens, am I relieved of my usual duties for a change?" George sighs contentedly. Pouring out two slightly larger helpings, I smile back.

"I'm feeling generous" I say.

And so ended a refreshingly pleasant day.


	125. More United.

**16th June, 2016.**

**House of Lords, London.**

Ten o'clock in the morning, in one of the grandest institutions in Britain, and I was feeling very _ill_. Not nauseous, so much, but _flustered_. A hot flush had hit me within minutes of entering the building, and once coupled with a headache is needed somewhere to retreat to. I'd begun to cool again now, refreshed after less than gracefully splashing my face with cold water. I now stare in the mirror. I'd noticed something on my forehead and now found myself fixated on it. A wrinkle. I'd done well to avoid them thus far, especially after the stress of my life, but I wasn't at all happy. That wrinkle, and the two grey hairs I'd also spotted, were a painful reminder to me. _Forty-four_.

I take another deep breath, pray that my hot flushes don't return, and head for the door. A bottle of mineral water is held out to me the moment I re-emerge in the corridor. Peter Mandelson had, dutifully, waited for me. He studies me curiously as we continue our stroll along to the Lords chamber, but I ignore him. Concscious of provoking any questions about my health, I attempt to restart the conversation we'd been having before my _turn_.

"Now, _the Scotland Bill_ ". Peter sighs.

"I would have thought you'd want to discuss the _referendum_ " he says. I scoff at that suggestion. The weeks had flown by, countless speeches had been made, and still I felt no more confident. Things would draw to a close soon, and the Remain campaign was no where near as safe as it presumed to be.

"To be perfectly honest, Peter, I'd prefer to discuss literally anything else" I reply. I'd only depress myself. And the eviction of my breakfast from my body had not left me in the best of moods.

"The polls aren't so good" Peter states, carrying on regardless, "Immigration seems to be the big talking point now. And your husband's continued wizardry". I had to admire George for sticking to his forecasts so passionately. He knew exactly what defending them was doing to his reputation, yet he carried on any way. There was an integrity to it that I found rather admirable.

"I think he's worried about losing" I tell Peter quietly, aware of the fact there were countless Lords and Ladies wandering near by, "There's so little optimism from him."

"He keeps talking about what'll happen when _he goes_ , too" I add, rubbing my aching temple.

"Well, it does appear to me that the result of the referendum is irrelevant to the lunatic right-wingers on the Tory backbenches" Peter speaks smoothly, "Cameron is _toast_ ". David's mood had not changed over the last month or so. It wasn't just Boris he argued with any more. He appeared calm and confident outside Downing Street. He was a slight wreck inside.

"And when David goes, George goes" I sigh.

"So he's hoping to leave with a bang" Peter assesses, "I'm amazed he's so _involved_ ". I arch my eyebrows at him. He seemed to have a greater attachment to the EU than David did, so I personally wasn't surprised.

"Well it won't play well with his own side" Peter says, "Clearly I've misunderstood him. He doesn't want to be prime minister, surely? If he does, he's a fool". _How quickly things could change_. I was being told to prepare for a move to No. 10 six months ago. Now I had to seriously consider the possibility of being forced out.

"I notice you've become rather quiet on America" Peter observes. With Trump now the likely Republican candidate, I was itching to throw myself back into the debate in the US, but knew I'd not get the chance for quite some time yet. Even if the referendum would be over in a week, there would be some kind of aftermath.

I shudder suddenly. _A_ _week_. The weeks had flown by without a trace, and still I was anxious about the result.

"I've told Hillary I'll rejoin her once this EU business is over" I tell Peter, "I've a campaign here to win first". My old colleague smiles softly.

"Winning seems a stretch" he says, almost amused by the prospect, "I like to think I tutored you, before you went _astray_ ". I roll my eyes. John Smith had warned me about Peter on my very first day in the Commons. I'd ignored that warning, and had as a result been branded _Mrs Machiavelli_ for much of my time in Gordon's government.

"No student of mine would be so foolish as to expect a Remain victory, given the state of our side" Peter continues, "My dear, I've no desire to see us leave the EU, unlike you, but I think Mr Farage will be the one smiling on June 24th". How bleak. I couldn't criticise him for pessimism. From my very first day out with the Remain campaign, I'd suspected the worst. There is something else, however, that I do pick Peter up on.

"In case you hadn't noticed Peter, I'm quite active in the fight _against_ Brexit" I remind him, "I've no idea why you'd think I'd want us to leave the EU". He'd been just as binary in the Labour leadership contest of 2010, if one could think back that far. Despite my own protestations, he'd decided for himself that I wholeheartedly backed Ed.

"My dear, what about the prospect of Brexit makes you most sad?" Peter asks, stopping to face me just before we reach the entrance of the Lords lobby, "Our leaving the European Union? Or the removal of your husband and cousin from office?". I frown at him.

"Peter, _I want to remain within the EU_ " I enforce, "Of course I'm concerned for George and David, but the suggestion I support Remain only for their sake is ludicrous."

"Which makes you most sad?" Peter repeats. I stare at him, wishing for him to back down. I say nothing, but find thoughts about wrinkles are replaced about Peter's words. I'd written articles, columns, appeared on Question Time, Marr, campaigned all over England. I'd stuck to the lines, whilst also sharing my own experiences with Europe. But at what point had I expressed serious concern about the impact something like Brexit would have on the economy? Or jobs? Or our position on the world stage?

I'd lectured on practicality, pointing out the importance of getting on with our neighbours no matter how frustrating it might be, but at what point had I _really_ worried about leaving? I could hit Peter. He was not easing my feeling of impending existential crisis.

"I don't know what point you're trying to make" I lie, lifting my nose just a little higher towards the ceiling. Peter's eyes don't leave me.

"Be honest. It's not working" he says quietly, "And if I may, a little more integrity on your part might have served you and your husband well". I ignore the last comment and instead feign a smile.

"I'm not at all satisfied with our current standing, but I shan't be as gloomy as you" I say, "I propose a bet".

"Another one" Peter nods, "You've made a good £40 out of me so far". I offer my hand to him.

"Let's make it £60" I propose, hiding my growing internal strife beneath a veil of renewed confidence, " _£20 says Remain wins on June 23rd_ ". Peter shakes my outstretched hand. A typically cunning smile works it way onto his thin lips.

"As they say, _you're on._ "

* * *

Alex was as good a confidant as I could hope for. _Unlike Peter,_ he accused me of nothing superficial. I was allowed to relax, without fear of being accused of dishonesty. There were, however, some things I could not escape.

"I don't at all think you look old" Alex speaks sweetly, setting a glass of water down on the desk before which I sit, "On the contrary, you look _thirty-five_ at the most". _Laying it on thick_ , I suspect, but I don't challenge him. I was grateful for the water. I'd been hit with yet another hot flush since my conservation with Peter, this time more intense.

"I'm certainly feeling fit again" I say, "All this running about on the referendum and the family finances has made me somewhat energetic at late". Alex resumes his seat behind the desk, larger and grander than the one I'd been given when I first arrived at the Commons, and sips at a latte.

"How is your takeover going, by the way?" Alex asks, "Have you agreed on the chairmanship yet?". I'd already formulated my plans for the family estate, but neglected questions about the business. That added to my stress, naturally,

"No, I haven't" I answer dismally, "I suppose I've been trying to focus on the house. The finances are in such a dire state". Alex raises an eyebrow at me.

"You seemed to driven last month. What's slowed you down?" he quizzes. The wrinkle on my forehead. The two grey hairs hidden amongst the fading red of my hair. The irritating hot flushes and headaches.

"I've suddenly begun to feel, well, old. I'm entirely sure why. I was quite upbeat before" I admit, "But I'm also worried about _George_ ". Something dark flashes in Alex's eyes. They move away from me and towards something he really doesn't not like. I turn in my seat and look to the open the door of the office. I just miss whoever happened to walk by, treated only to a tiny glimpse of cropped grey hair and the back of a slim figure.

"I've a feeling your worry is justified" Alex grumbles, still focusing on the doorway as though the woman lingered there, " _She's on the prowl_ ". _A submarine_. Even if my support for Remain was supposedly false, I'd actually made an effort. George and David had more or less sacrificed any chance they had of continued success in their party, whilst a particularly astute colleague of theirs sat the entire thing out.

" _Theresa May_ " Alex practically snarls, "She knows precisely what she's up to". I find I'm ever so slightly amused by the look on his face. Genuine anger was unusual for Alex. To see him so irritated by the mere mention of someone was almost funny.

"Not keen on a second female leader then?" I tease. Alex takes the most aggressive sip of coffee I'd witnessed.

"I've no issue with her gender" he states plainly, "Just her version of conservatism. And her deliberate attempts to better her own position in the party by sitting the entire referendum out". I'd never seen him so bitter. He was as aware as I of the likelihood of David's forceful removal. Who would he support instead?

"George would be out on his ear if she were to make it to No. 10" Alex sighs, "He's far too _compassionate_ for her."

"He seems to think he'd stand a chance in a May government" I reply, recalling the tired conversation I'd had with him one night many weeks ago. Alex snorts, but I can tell he sees no humour in the situation.

"I doubt it" he disagrees, " _Boris_ , however". As his voice trails off, he seems to consider the option seriously for a moment or two, before hiding his head in his hands and emitting a low groan.

"Boris" I repeat, "He tried to cosy up to me the other week, you know. As though I'd run straight to George and sing his praises". He'd called by Downing Street on a number of occasions since his altercation with David, always sporting a goofy grin, always armed with another of his bizarre witticisms.

"I'm much more likely to vote for him should George have his approval" Alex says. _Perhaps Boris' efforts were not entirely made in vain._

"In twenty years, when all of this is behind us, it might be you waiting to be crowned" I muse, wanting to derive some happiness from at least _one_ conversation today. _You'll be sixty-four in twenty years_ , my inner voice uncomfortably reminds me, _imagine how many wrinkles and grey hairs you'll have then_.

"Someone has to stand up for modern conservatism" Alex responds proudly, "If George never makes it to No. 10, I'll do my bloody best to get there instead". I don't need to feign my smile this time. _My son wanted the top job_. He was even more ambitious than I had been at his age.

"And what is your first call to be, Prime Minister Nelson?" I poke. Alex sets his latte aside and leans closer in his seat. The anger that had flashed in his eyes at the mention of Mrs May had now faded away, instead replaced by a youthful energy that made me want to forget my wrinkle worries.

" _Refugees_ " Alex grins, so visibly enthusiastic I suspect he might burst at any moment, "We've been making real ground on the campaign-". Another door down the corridor is slammed open, and, after a short series of hurried footsteps, a man pokes his head into Alex's office.

"Oh, Lady Nelson" Chuka Umunna says, startled by my presence, "I'm sorry to disturb you". I can instantly tell something is wrong. Chuka had been an ally of mine in the days of Ed's shadow cabinet. He always appeared cheerful when I saw him, but at this exact moment that happiness appeared to be replaced by an intense sense of urgency.

"Alex, turn the news on _now_ " he instructs, "Now". Alex reaches for the remote that sits on his desk and turns the small television resting on a cabinet across the room on. I feel myself gulp. _This was not going to be good, was it?_ My concerns about Europe and those damned grey hairs seemed completely irrelevant now.

BBC News appears on screen. Instantly my eyes are drawn to the red banner at the bottom. _BREAKING NEWS_. A shiver runs down my spine. Aerial footage of a crime scene, about which tape had been placed and policemen crawled, was presented to us, forcing our hearts deeper and deeper into abject fear.

"Oh my _God_ " I hear myself whisper, a hand reaching up to cover my mouth. Alex rises to his feet, but says not a word. Joyous and bubbling one moment, stunned into silence the next. A painful change in mood and fortune. An MP, it appeared, had been attacked in broad daylight, her life now hanging in the balance.

My initial shock is soon coupled with a sick realisation. I knew the poor woman's name. _Jo Cox_. My eyes dart to Alex immediately. Still he remains silent, but now I see his eyes are brimming with tears. Quite often I'd heard him talk of her, of how her energy and optimism had inspired him to take such a stand on refugees. I'd never met her, but I wish I had. I wanted to thank her for allowing my son to find his calling.

"We'll update you on this as information comes in" I hear a reporter say. The words dart about my head on a loop. Stabbed. Attacked. _An MP_. I'd grown up at a time when a considerable number of parliamentarians had found their lives threatened. We were not living in the 70s or 80s any more. _This was 2016_. 2016, and _this_ had happened. For all the talk of global progress I heard, I really did worry for our world.

"Mother of two". The words I hear  _sting_. I think of the husband, and the two young children, their lives thrown into chaos after what should have been another day of peace. Again, I look to Alex, but I also think of Emily and Edith. George appears in my thoughts too. What if it had been him? How safe were any of us? How could such a thing have happened?

Chuka and Alex continue to stare at the television, hoping with all they had that their friend would make it. I bow my head and close my eyes, hands clasped together. I think once more on that dreadful headline, and then I _pray_.

* * *

 _Politics. Europe. Referenda_. They were all forgotten about, and rightfully so. The sun was setting on a very dark day, not one I wanted to see repeated ever again. I stand near a window, the sleeping form of Edith held tightly in my arms. I'd not let go of her for a good fifteen minutes now. I'd already called Emily, and instructed George to bring Alex over to Downing Street. _I needed to be near my children._

On the bedroom door comes a knock. I barely turn, not wishing to disturb Edith but now wanting him to see the redness of my cheeks either. What a horrible thing to have to witness. I couldn't even begin to imagine how her family felt at this moment. It was too heartbreaking to dwell on.

"I can always cancel it, you know" I hear George speak quietly, "It's no trouble". He'd already swapped his blue tie for a black one. An annual dinner with representatives of the city, a necessary engagement for chancellors. Celebrations and toasts were to be replaced by respectful tributes and quiet contemplation.

"No, you should go" I say, looking vacantly out of the window at nothing in particular, "It's the best way of showing we're unafraid, _carrying on_ ". He lingers by the doorway for a moment or two. A floorboard creaks as he turns away again. I tear myself away from the window, still holding Edith near, and call him back again.

I kiss him before he leaves. I tell him to be safe. He assures me he will be, and gently takes Edith from me, wanting to be as near to her as I but not waking her. I resist the urge to weep once more and take a moment to dry my cheeks with a handkerchief. George says he might be late, but doesn't care. Nor do I.

As he cradles little Edith close, I listen out. No sound comes from the sitting room down the hallway, but I knew exactly what I'd find once I set foot in there. Just as I'd held Edith close, I'd hold my son close. I wouldn't want Alex to be any where else at this moment. He'd faced grief and tragedy in the past, but nothing like this. Nothing so awful. Nothing so _evil_.

Before I join him, I watch George set Edith down in her cot. She could sleep peacefully, safe with us. She'd grow up with her parents near. " _A mother of two_ ". The words of that dreaded news report pain me all the more. The agony of growing up without their mother to guide them was unimaginable for most, yet it was a reality those poor children would be forced to accept as they matured. I couldn't bear to think about it.

"They're holding a vigil in Parliament Square" George says, "People of all persuasions and none have gathered. I _hate_ the fact it took something like this to pull us all together". The referendum seemed a light year away now. Any concerns I'd had about it or its aftermath vanished. There was only _this_.

"I know Alex would like to be there" I nod, "But I wouldn't want him to be alone". I embrace George again. I really didn't care at all if he was late. Once again we had been reminded of the hideous flaws of human nature, and the fragility of life. Part of me wishes to hold onto him forever and wait for this horrid episode to pass, but I know I have to let him go.

"He won't be alone" George says, "He'll stand by his colleagues. And _you_ ". Sam could watch Edith, and Parliament Square was only a very short walk down the road. Standing together as a _family_ was one thing. Standing together as a city, a nation, a _people_. That was something entirely different.

* * *

 _We are far more united, and have far more in common with each other than that which divides us_. They were important words that would help to heal the wounds we all nursed as Britain rose to face a new day. It would be difficult, but we'd manage.

We'd allowed ourselves to become too bitter, too blinkered in our petty hatred. Divisions that had ripped through families and communities pulled wider and wider as the country descended into a binary war, one side against the other in an effort to be right. We were bogged down by pessimism, the pathetic idea that, despite our best achievements as a nation, we ought to be either angry or miserable. I'd fallen victim to that kind of feeling only twenty four hours ago. I'd stood in a bathroom and lamented one tiny indication of physical decline. I'd grown annoyed with Peter simply because he disagreed with me.

 _I was lucky_. Cosy in my well-guarded house without financial strain or great marital difficulties, children I maintained very close relationships with, supportive family and friends, a seat and a voice in one of the world's oldest democracies. _I was so very lucky_. I could wake up today, and every day, and enjoy those things. I had much to be thankful for, much to be happy about. Yet allowed myself to be bogged down by such silly things.

I was getting old. That made me lucky too. I was allowed to get old. I'd not had my life cut tragically short. I could see my children grow and strive to do extraordinary things, with an unfailingly kind husband by my side always. _I was lucky enough to be getting old_. I'd never dwell on my stupid wrinkles or grey hairs again.

The apartment is quiet when I dress for the day. George had gone to work, and Edith was next door with the Cameron children. I find Alex sleeping softly on the couch when I enter the sitting room. He lies still, expression peaceful, breathing gentle. I find a blanket and drape it over him. I didn't know when he'd wake, but I wanted him to be as comfortable as possible while he rested. He needed it.

We'd stood alongside our colleagues, irrespective of affiliation in Parliament Square last night and lit candles in Jo's memory. Jeremy Corbyn's speech to those gathered moved me most. I didn't care for his politics or policies at that moment. Most things were more important than partisan squabbles, but a display of solidarity in the face of evil was _most especially_ important.

I tip toe past him and take my laptop into the kitchen. Assuming a chair at the counter, I turn it on and wait. The best we can do is carry on. I had emails to answer, and a column to write. The topic of solidarity in the face of hatred seemed appropriate.

I open my inbox. _N. Freidman_. A decision was needed on the chairmanship of the company by 16th July. Less than a month. That was sufficient time, wasn't it? I type a promise to get back to him as soon as I could, and move on.

 _Liam_ , I see in total simplicity. It had been quite some time since I'd last seen that name. The Telegraph remained an ally of mine, even if its editor, the previously elusive Liam, did like to stick the boot into George on a regular basis. " _One of my columnists is leaving. Fancy filling the space?_ " the message reads. Two columns. No wonder the Mail accused me of attempting to dominate the press. _Two wouldnt be so terrible, would they?_ I could discuss different topics. I could write one as the ex-MP and one as the new chairman of the family business. _If I'd accept the role, of course_.

I reply that I'll consider it and move on again. A slightly less coherent email presents itself.

" _ŴoUl;d yÖ) lík3 to SEE R!@chārd II nęxt weERk". M. Heseltine_. I am convinced already. He'd gone to such trouble trying to use a computer, I could hardly turn him down.

And then I spot something different. The name of a No. 10 press officer appears in my inbox, and with it a request. Campaigning may have been suspended in the wake of our most recent tragedy, but planning for the final few days continued. A great debate had been scheduled. _David Dimbleby, live at Wembley_. I'd turned down the offer to appear on the Remain side when George had first asked me.

But now I begin to think differently. Regardless of my fears about the result of that damned referendum, I was lucky enough to be _here_. I was lucky enough to still be in a position to campaign for it all regardless.

I look over the email once more.

And then I type a simple 'yes.'


	126. One Final Crusade.

**22nd June, 2016.**

**A typically busy street in London.**

I'd left the salon feeling considerably happier than I'd entered it. Hot flushes and grey hairs told me only one thing, and even amidst the host of new opportunities I'd thrown myself into, I was getting _older_. I had the greatest performance of all to look forward to this evening. Wembley Arena. I wasn't a pop star,  a comedian. I was an ex-politician faced with a crowd split between Remain and Leave, and an opposition including Boris. I had the necessary facts and figures rehearsed. I also had a new haircut.

" _Blimey_ " Jonathan, having waited dutifully outside, says. I'd promised to pay for tea. He'd been keen to talk to me about the progression of his book, and I had for some reason decided that the morning of the biggest television appearance in my life was the best time to do so.

"Too much?" I ask, patting the back of my freshly cut hair. A pleasant wash, and a _hint_ of dye to remove those pesky grey hairs, had left me feeling rather fresh. I'd always worn my hair at shoulder length, but had today taken another bold step. I'd had my hair cut _short_. _Very_ _short_.

"I'm wondering why you didn't have it done sooner" Jonathan says, eyes ever so slightly widened. He opens his mouth to speak again, but fails to say anything. I reach up to pat my hair yet again, head rising by an inch or two. I was _forty-four_. I didn't care how vain I appeared, I was glad I could still make such impact.

"Are we going to tea, or not?" I ask, clicking my fingers in front of him. Jonathan nods quickly and leads the way along the pavement. I notice people reading newspapers as we walk along. On the front pages of most were headlines about the damned EU. Campaigning had resumed after the tragedy of last week, and harder than ever Jo's fellow Remainers were fighting.

Jonathan is alert enough to find a nearby tea room, small but pleasant, and join me at a table. After we make our orders, he reaches into his bag and withdraw a small bundle of photos held together with elastic band. I cringe the moment I see the first.

"Who gave you those?" I ask, wincing at the sight of a seven year old Elizabeth grinning, with two front teeth missing, at the camera. Jonathan smirks to himself, withdrawing the offending photo and brandishing it about proudly. I try to snatch it back, before releasing there are actually others in the room.

"Your sister, actually" Jonathan says.

"I didn't realise the two of you were familiar" I sigh, accepting the embarrassment sure to come as the remaining photos are spread out across the table. I notice Jonathan blushes, but I say nothing.

"Oh, _God_ ". My eyes fall upon a photo taken outside the family home in Oxfordshire. On a particularly flaky old bench, amongst the flowers my mother was so fond of growing, sat a sixteen year old Elizabeth, now with a full set of teeth, alongside a seventeen year old George. I wasn't even aware of the photo. It wasn't necessarily a bad one, but the clothes we wore certainly seemed questionable now.

" _1988_ " I say with a shake my head, picking the photo up, "It's quite ridiculous."

"I was eight when that photo was taken" Jonathan points out. I roll my eyes. _Just as I was beginning to feel young again._

"You don't mind me putting it in the book, do you?" he asks. It was only a small embarrassment, and their was a degree of sweetness to it. A naïve joy was etched upon our faces. We both had our own dreams and ambitions, and enjoyed talking about them, but we didn't obsess over them. There were no red boxes of damned debates about _Europe_.

"I think I can tolerate it" I smile softly, "It's not as though _I'm_ going to read it". I wink at Jonathan when I see his face drop a little. I wasn't lying. I had no intention of reading this book of his, only supporting him during the process. It would be terrifically boring to relive things I could remember with the upmost clarity.

"Had you known each other long when this was taken?" Jonathan asks, with innocent curiosity. I inspect the photo once more. It was _definitely_ 1988\. I could tell by the way my hair was styled. I also remember it to be the first time George visited me in Oxfordshire.

"A few months, perhaps" I say nonchalantly, "It was the first time he'd spent time at the estate."

"I'm sure that was an education for him" Jonathan quips. As the memories begin to flood back, clearer now, I start to laugh.

" _That it was_."

_A pleasant, sunny afternoon. And I was stuck indoors. At my mother's insistence, I'd consigned myself to a room isolated in the relative peace of the back of the house. She'd said that the piano was best practised alone. While I was sure my loneliness would be enough to get me through the pages of Beethoven I'd need to remember for my upcoming exam, I would so rather have been outside, enjoying the sunshine while it lasted. I could hear gunshots in the distance, and the occasion splash of a pool just beyond the patio. Everyone else was having fun._

_Then comes a light knock on the nearest door of the room. I push my stool back and call out to the person lurking behind. In steps a boy of dark hair and dark eyes, his pale skin tainted somewhat by smudges of dirt. Above his right eyebrow I see a small cut that bleeds ever so slightly. I resist the temptation to laugh and instead hurry over._

_"What on Earth have you been doing?" I ask. George sighs heavily, allowing himself a moment for composure before he relays what was no doubt a rather embarrassing story._

_"I fell into a bush" he admits. I have to bite my lip._

_"And why did you do that?" I question. These city types were useless._

_"Your father was insistent I go shooting with him" George tells me miserably, "I tried to show off and ended up falling arse first into a bush". I glance up and down his sorry form. The odd leaf could be seen poking out of the back of his black curls, and his now creased trousers were brushed with dust._

_"So long as you don't turn up to dinner like that" I joke, "Mother would be furious". George simply looks back at me with a sad expression. I roll my eyes._

_"Alright, come on" I sigh, deserting Beethoven for more heroic endeavours. I lead George into the kitchen and tell him to sit down. He'd only complain about his cut later. I'm tempted to abandon him to his wounds when I hear him laugh at me. My attempts to find a tissue were not overly sucessful. There was something rather embarrassing about not knowing how to navigate your own kitchen, but I eventually manage._

_"Oh, for goodness sake, George" I grumble, dabbing at the cut with the now wet tissue, "Stop flinching". He doesn't._

_"It hurts" he whines._

_"Perhaps you ought to learn to be a little less cocky" I suggest. I could imagine Nevin cackling his head off at the sight of George tumbling from the green into a bush, but my father would be less impressed. He'd been deeply suspicious of George ever since he arrived, and I got the impression it wasn't simply his status as an outsider that provoked such a feeling._

_"Alas, I am not as perfect as you" George needles with a jerk of his head. I press down on the cut harder than I should in retaliation._

_"Out of interest" I ponder, "How many pheasants did you shoot?". My father would not be happy if he'd scored anything under five in the time that they'd been gone._

_"Well" George stutters, "Something in the region of...zero". I'm forced to bite my lip again. The disappointment that flashes in his eyes at his own failure was most endearing, but also terribly funny._

_"I think I might have maimed one" he adds. I don't bother holding back my laughter this time. I could imagine one poor pheasant stumbling about the hills with an injured wing, wondering how on earth that pillock from London had missed._

_I finish dabbing at his cut, satisfied it was clean, and throw the tissue away. I flick the switch of the kettle, something I have no trouble using, and perch on the stool next to George's as the water boils. "Your father will think I'm quite the flop" George speaks dismally. I roll my eyes._

_"Regardless of my father's opinion of you" I reply, seeking to console him nonetheless, "I still think you're alright". Failing to shoot a pheasant was a typically middle class sin, and therefore not one I was willing to recognise._

_"Do you?" George asks, brightening up remarkably._

_"Certainly" I smile._

_Silence descends over the kitchen, broken only by the seemingly endless gurgling of the kettle. I tap idly on my knees, feeling thoroughly awkward all of a sudden. George twiddles his thumbs. Neither of us says anything, though I get the impression there was something that needed to be said._

_I suddenly panic and kiss him instead._

"That's all very wholesome" Jonathan grins, the impression I'd given of George melting even he.

"We weren't always bastards, you know" I reply sarcastically. It was nice to look back to a time when my biggest problem was a trivial piano exam, and George's that he was a complete failure when attempting country sports.

* * *

I'd done something rather silly. Plagued by nerves and hot flushes, I'd led my colleagues out onto the terrace of the Houses of Parliament, ordered as large a whisky as I was allowed and politely accepted a cigarette from Nick Clegg. My doctors would murder me, especially after a very clean twelve months, but I had more important things to dwell on.

"My God, to think it's almost over" Sadiq Khan remarks to my left, rubbing his eyes. We were all tired, but would have to look as sprightly as possible in an hour or two. The promised _great debate_ crept ever nearer, and so we sought refuge in drink.

"When will Ruth be arriving?" I ask, idly running a finger about the rim of my empty glass.

"Yearning for her, are you?" David smirks. He'd also broken his old promises to not smoke again, though I didn't think the medical side effects of such an indulgence would be quite so heavy for him.

"She's a very talented lady" I state simply. I'd already noticed the infamous pride incident was being brought up again on Twitter, with the daring kiss I'd initiated providing interesting proof of the friendliness felt between those on the Remain side of the debate. I'd not yet embraced Sadiq, however.

I push my glass back and glance over my shoulder, towards the wall of the terrace. I'd stood against it often, sometimes looking across at the stacks of buildings ahead and sometimes looking down at the murky depths of the Thames. The young man who stands there now opts for the latter view. I leave the others to chatter away their nervousness and approach my son.

"You're most welcome at the Arena, you know" I invite. Alex picks at his nails and releases a deep breath. Under his eyes I saw deep purple rings, and his already pale skin was now almost grey. He seemed almost as haunted as poor Emily had been in hospital. In the case of Alec, however, I knew _precisely_ what was wrong.

"I had to cancel a meeting today, with one of the Syrians who moved into our old house" Alex tells me quietly, "I was geared up for it, but I found the moment I reached the door _I couldn't do it_ ". I listen to him carefully. He'd need a shoulder to cry on over the next few weeks and months. Around this time last year I was learning how to cope without Charles. Losing him so suddenly had been traumatic enough. I could only begin to imagine how Alex was feeling, having lost a friend in such horrid circumstances.

"I know it's hard, but _carrying on_ is the best chance we have of defeating whatever breed of hate presents itself to us" I say softly, "Those refugees have lost one of their best advocates. Keep fighting and do her proud". Alex clears his throat and lifts his spectacles, dabbing at the corner of his left eye with his finger.

I stand beside him quietly for a minute or two, a comforting arm about his shoulder. When he needed to talk, we'd talk. For now, I could simply reassure him that I was there.

"Liz!". My sister calls me from across the terrace. Alex slinks away before I can excuse myself, and so I abandon the sight of the Thames and walk towards Helena. I'd asked her to bring Edith over for a much needed cuddle. If anything was to calm me, it was Edith.

"Stay and have a drink, won't you?" I smile, holding the growing bundle close. It was bizarre to think she was already eight months old.

"Not for me, thank you" Helena declines, uncharacteristically, "I've been feeling rather nauseous". She runs a hand through her hair, as equally red as mine despite our age difference. I'd be most flattered to be mistaken for someone Helena's age.

"I hope it's nothing contagious" I say.

"Oh, no" Helena says, appearing most distracted all of a sudden, "It's nothing like that". I frown at her. She wasn't visibly ill, with only light bags under her eyes. She was perhaps a pound or two heavier about the middle, but it was nothing drastic.

"Not feeling unwell, are you?" I hear David speak, as he puffs on the cigarette he proved himself he'd avoid, "I could always stand in for you". I snort at that suggestion. The most David had been willing to put himself up for was an ITV event in which he answered questions about Europe a good twenty minutes before Nigel Farage. He had made no attempt to take his rivals on head to head, something I regretted enormously.

"Not here, David" I warn, knocking the cigarette from his hand and placing Edith down in his lap instead, "There's more to this than _Boris_ ". He glares me at me, but soon simmers down when he notices the look of quiet joy on little Edith's face. _It was like handing a toy to baby._ Whatever kept them quiet.

"I hear you're heading up to Oxford tomorrow" my sister poses.

"Rather moronically, I forgot to register for a postal vote" I sigh, rolling my eyes at my own stupidity, "Besides, I have business to attend to". I'd wasn't the most convenient time, but I feared _other things_ would be pressing on my mind after polling day.

"I don't suppose you've accepted that chairmanship, have you?" Helena asks, rubbing her forehead gently. The more I looked at her, the more I noticed a change. I still didn't suspect her to be ill, but something wasn't right.

"I'm meeting Mr Freidman tomorrow morning" I say, "I thought it would be good to discuss the role a little more". My sister narrows her eyes at me.

"You so obviously want it" she smirks, "You've mastered one field, so turn your hand to another". Even this _live life to the full_ attitude I'd sworn to adopt following last week's tragedy had its holes. I wasn't _quite_ a forty-four year old without troubles. Quite the contrary, I had a number of troubles.

"Liz" Sadiq calls, approaching me, "We'll need to start heading off soon". He looks at Helena most curiously. She wasn't a regular here, and no doubt her press pass made him suspicious.

"My sister" I introduce, " _Deputy Editor of Vogue_ ". Sadiq's confusion deepens. Vogue weren't known for their political analysis. It was nothing underhand, I wanted to reassure him, just another regulatory twist of the arm on my part. Perhaps this was the elitism Farage harped on about. _Using my status as a peer of the realm to get clearance for my editor sister._

"Ah, she's here" Sadiq says, eyes turning towards the nearest double doors. I turn on my heel to see the delightfully round figure of Ruth Davidson stepping out onto the terrace. I go over to her almost instantly. No doubt David would tease me for that later.

"It's lovely to see you again" I greet, "Nervous?". She smiles, not a hint of worry about her.

"Not really" she answers truthfully, "Yourself?". My nerves would linger, but I was certainly calmer now than I had been earlier.

"I think I'm most worried for Boris" I joke, "He has an entire arena to offend". Ruth reaches into her pocket and withdraws a small piece of paper upon which she'd pencilled words I could not quite read.

"Boris quotes" she tells me with a grin.

"I've built up an arsenal myself" I reply, barely restraining my own smile. It wasn't difficult to find lines Boris had written or spoken that favoured the European Union. _Then again, it wasn't difficult to find quotes of mine damning the whole thing_.

I suddenly become aware of a camera. My sister holds her phone up, aiming it at Ruth and I. I could tell by the mischievous look in her that she wanted to recreate one of my better moments.

"Give 'er a kiss, Liz" David shouts, mimicking perfectly the journalist had made that infamous request at that otherwise calm pride parade. I roll my eyes. But, _again_ , I do it.

Most proud of herself, Helena lowers her phone and begins to tap away at it. I wasn't overly worried about what she'd do with the photo. George would almost definitely find it amusing. It might also do some good. _A symbol of unity_ , in a bizarre, non-heterosexual way.

Content, Helena sighs. "That is _definitely_ going on Twitter."

* * *

 _Immigration_. The most contentious issue of the referendum is raised, much to the delight of the three opposite. I'd felt somewhat uneasy in the first few minutes of the debate. The audience, consisting of thousands, had been divided between Remain and Leave. Spectators not only clapped, but cheered. It was like being at a football match at times.

By now, however, I'd settled down. Anxiety was replaced by anger, laid bare in what was to be the last crusade of the Remain campaign against the band of deceitful populists before us. Just looking at Boris irked me now. Constantly, I was reminded of his words to me in Downing Street. Knowing his motivation in all this coloured my view of even the tiniest comment he might make.

"Of course mass immigration is an issue" Sadiq speaks, voice raised far higher than it had been when we first began, "But don't let them tell you that leaving the EU is the silver bullet that will solve it all."

Andrea Leadsom throws her hands in the air. "What does the Remain campaign have to offer on immigration?" Gisela Stuart says, just about audible over the sound of the audience, "How will remaining a member of the EU help us manage our borders? Just look at the most recent figures. _It's not working_ ". The Leavers present applaud.

"I have had a look at those figures" I respond, "And they say that net migration from countries _outside_ the EU is higher. What would the Leave side do about _that_ border?". Our side cheers.

"I'm somewhat stunned by Lady Nelson's change of heart on this" Boris pipes up. He addressed me as _Lady Nelson_ to point out what an establishment shill I was, no doubt.

"August, 2011. The Daily Mail" Boris reads, " _We cannot afford to be complacent about ever-climbing immigration figures. Celebrating the great contribution immigrants offer us cannot come at the expense of lost control_ ". I could barely remember writing it.

" _I'm the first to admit the last government did not do enough to tackle this issue, and I have low expectations of  the new one_ " he goes on, " _Though for as long as we remain a member of the European Union, there will always be another we can blame_ ". Half of the audience celebrate the words.

"Elizabeth is a highly intelligent lady" Boris concludes, turning towards the masses who cheer for him, "But what I think the audience here would really appreciate is some _integrity_ ". Something within me snaps.

"You're not really in a position to lecture on integrity, Boris" I needle, "When the only number you're focused on is No. 10". The leavers present gasp and hiss, but they're balanced out by the animation of the Remainers.

"Boris, read to me from any speech or article I've written in which I say we should leave the European Union". The man before he hesitates just a little too long. There is a slight fumble of his papers, and a readjustment of his microphone, _but no quote_.

"Now I might be a filthy liberal elitist incapable of matching the theatrics of Boris Johnson" I say, disregarding David Dimbleby's calls for a little less heat, "I don't have an airy slogan to deliver to you, or a bright red bus to bomb about in. I have _experience_."

"Experience working in Europe, working alongside our allies on the continent to get things done" I go on, confident I had the floor, "Did it frustrate me at times? Absolutely. Would I ever abandon it? No."

"You do not get things done by simply walking away. You don't strengthen your hand by weakening your neighbours. You're no more great as a country when you divorce yourself from an alliance necessary in today's world. To step back is to throw your toys out of the pram, to stomp your feet because you couldn't have everything your way". I make sure I look at Boris now.

"We're bigger than that" I conclude, satisfied I'd made my point, "And we're most certainly _better_ than that". I feel several inches taller when the Remain side roar in approval. _Why had I ever been nervous?_ I was really starting to enjoy myself.

"Britain doesn't quit! Britain doesn't quit!". A chant breaks out. Boris' cheeks flush a light pink, whilst Leadsom and Stuart can merely glare. To my left I can see Sadiq mouthing the words. Ruth holds herself up proudly, as bold as ever.

Public opinion may not be on our side, and the polls were certainly worrying, but in this moment I don't care. I'd promised myself I'd get out there and fight while I could, and I'd done that. This was a fight I believed I was likely to lose, but one I'd wage with determination right up until the last second.

* * *

In an hour, I'd cleared half of my family's debts. George could learn something, I thought. A few phone calls and short meetings, and we were nearing solvency once more. Half of the estate, chopped up and sold off, seemed a fair price to pay for Nevin's idiocy. In that crucial hour, his empire had shrunk. I could only pray that he'd learnt his lesson this time.

"The tenants often use the lower field for shooting" I explain to Claire over a cup of tea, "I don't see why I shouldn't start charging them for the privilege."

"They won't like that" my sister-in-law warns, casually placing a hand atop the growing bump about her middle. I'd already promised my mother I'd leave the estate to Nevin's children in my will. It didn't seem fair to rob them of it all simply because of their father's foolishness.

"They're going to have to like it" I say, holding my head up just that little bit higher, "I'm lord of the manor now."

"Or lady" Claire points out.

We're startled by the sound of retching in the neighbouring bathroom. My mother was upstairs with the children, Alex was on his laptop in the sitting room and Nevin was goodness knows where. I approach the door of the bathroom and knock gently.

"Helena?" I ask. She'd not looked overly healthy on our train ride up to Oxfordshire last night. At the time, I'd put it down to fatigue. I wince when I hear further retching, much more forceful this time.

"I'm fine" my sister calls out, "I suppose I ate something dodgy". All I'd seen her eat in the last twenty four hours was half a packet of crisps from a train food trolley. I didn't credit national Rail with much, but I would accuse them of selling poison.

"Mother!". Alex appears, circles beneath his eyes as dark as ever. He starts slightly when another loud bout of heaving sounds out from the bathroom. "We ought to go down before it gets too busy" Alex suggests, "I havent the energy to contend with the press."

_Not so lucky._

Ten minutes later, after a pleasant stroll down the lane in the early morning sunshine, idly offering ideas for the estate's remaining acres, and we find a cluster of journalists waiting outside the town hall. Local and national, they spring up when they notice Alex and I growing near, pens whipped out from their coats and cameras switched on.

"How confident are you feeling today, Lady Nelson?" one woman shouts, shoving a microphone in my face. I bat it away and stroll past them. I'd done enough talking yesterday.

"Mr Nelson?" the same woman asks, now turning to Alex. Out of the corner of my eye I see him hesitate. His pace slows, allowing the swarm to encircle him. He'd barely made any effort at all to resist them. _Haven't the energy to contend with the press_ , he had said. I could instantly sense George's influence.

"I trust the people of Britain to make the right decision" Alex speaks, calm and measured, "Naturally, should my side lose this referendum, I shall be most disappointed". He softens his accent, his words a little less crisp, a small hint of estuary creeping in. I'd heard him do it before. Sounding like an Etonian wasn't particularly popular these days. Again, I'm reminded of George. _Whatever made him appeal more_.

"And what of your party leader?" another hack presses, "Will you support him in the event of a leadership challenge?". A light flickers in his eyes. The weariness fades from his face, and in an instant he's animated.

"David Cameron has done wonders for our party these past ten years" Alex speaks proudly, "Frankly, any MP who seeks to remove him is a foolish one". I wait for him to finish his defence at the door of the town hall. He was terribly convincing. Kicking David out be the most colossal of mistakes. I'd talked with George often about the possibility of such thing, but only now did it feel so _real_.

"Alex!" another voice bellows. I roll my eyes. Would he ever be free? Alex initially ignores the call. It's repeated again, his name shouted ever louder than before. He turns on his heel impatiently, the cluster of waiting journalists parting to reveal the sight of a lithe young man sprinting towards the hall, black curls bouncing in all directions. I smile despite myself. A lover's reunion probably wasn't what the gathered tabloids had come here for, but it was what they were about to get.

"Isaac" Alex breathes, visibly stunned by the boy's rapid appearance. Isaac allows himself a few seconds to catch his breath, before straightening himself up and flicking his curls back into place.

"I thought I saw you walk this way" he explains, "I had to sprint". I see Alex frown.

" _Right_ " he replies, a little stiffly, "Can I help you?". I wasn't sure how long they'd been estranged, but even from a difference it felt like an awkward exchange.

"I forgive you" Isaac speaks. The journalists behind scratch their heads. Some scribble away at their notepads regardless.

"I'm sorry?"

"I forgive you."

"I don't understand."

To think I'd paid so much for his education. Isaac seems just as bored as I, for he seizes Alex by the cheeks and kisses him hard. As glad as I was to see them reunited, I didn't feel my watching them was particularly helpful, and so I slip into the town hall.

A minute or two later, and I'm standing in a polling booth with a ballot paper and tiny pencil in hand. The options were clear. _Remain or Leave_. I'd been at many a polling booth, and drawn my cross on countless ballot papers, but there was something about this moment that seemed to bring everything else into perspective. It was the biggest decision of my career, and most probably the biggest of Alex's too.

I draw my cross neatly, and step away. The ballot paper is slid into a battered black box, and then I'm released. That was it. There was nothing more I could do. A few short interviews and nudges on Twitter could be attempted later in the day, perhaps, but there couldn't be many still willing to be persuaded. I force myself to remember my own words. Keep fighting.

If this was to be a momentous day, it was best I tackled it with a degree of optimism. Had I forgotten my previous fears? No. Was there any point dwelling on them? _No_.

Regardless of the result, I already find something to smile about. Public displays of affection often put me off, but I'd let the one I find as I leave the town hall go.


	127. June 23rd.

**23rd June, 2016.**

**No. 11 Downing Street, London.**

I'd nodded off at some point before nine. With no exit poll to wait for, I'd decided it would be best for me to have a nap before results began to pour in. And pour in they did.

I can hear cheering when I wake, not from any one nearby but from the television. I rub the sleep from my eyes and hurry away into the sitting room. A woman, clad in a Vote Leave t-shirt, was held aloft in celebration, a legion of fellow Brexiteers at her feet. They celebrated in an area that should so easily have been easy pickings for Remain. The paleness of George is enough to tell me we're not doing as well as we'd hoped.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Peter. 'It looks as though you owe me £20'. I ignore the message and instead join George on the couch. I'd caught a glimpse of a very stressed David earlier. George was, in comparison, relatively calm. Now, however, I notice an undeniable look of anxiety.

"The gap is getting bigger" George informs me, watching the vote count displayed on screen with narrowed eyes. I reach over to hold his hand. I'd have to grit my teeth and bear it. It seemed I was right to be sceptical, but I hadn't the will to be smug. My fears were, unfortunately, becoming a reality.

"I think I caught Gove on earlier" George comments, sinking back into the couch with a miserable expression, " _Git_ ". They'd been good friends not so long ago.

I shiver slightly at the mention of his name. Gove instantly reminded me of Boris. They appeared to be in league, no doubt hoping to present themselves a duo to rival that of George and David. I'd not really suspected Gove of much, until I'd bumped into him just twenty four hours earlier.

_The debate was over, the facts and put downs frantically analysed in the spin room, and I was outside. I'd rejected a cigarette this time, simply enjoying the fresh air of this cold London night before I headed off to the train station. The crunch of gravel behind me catches my attention._

_"I'm sorry to startle you" the man with spectacles speaks, his accent soft, not unlike my own. Michael Gove. Not at all a daunting figure, but undoubtedly clever. I was suspicious of him. There was a whiff of closeted Machiavelli that seemed to linger about his person. Polite, but up to something. I'd always thought him harmless up until his._

_"What did you think of your dear leader's performance?" I ask him. He stands alongside me and slips his hands into his pockets._

_"I thought he presented himself very well" he replies, glancing up at the night sky with interest, "Though I thought you were rather good, too."_

_"I'm flattered" I smile, "Say, what role do you intend to fill when the leadership challenge comes? Chancellor? Deputy?". I catch him by surprise._

_"What leadership challenge would that be?" he ponders, attempt naivety. I roll my eyes. Did he honestly think me so dim?_

_"Well, regardless of the result of this referendum, your lot will call for David's head" I explain, "David's a decent person. He'll resign before he can be pushed". Michael furrows his brows._

_"I hope that doesn't happen" he says._

_"And if it does? Will Boris be your chosen candidate?" I press, predicting the answer, "Look me in the eye and tell me that man would be a competent prime minister". Michael blinks at me. I doesn't respond to my request. Probably because he couldn't._

_"You and I both know Boris is a clown. He's a risk, Michael" I sigh, "I do hope you realise that sooner rather than later". I leave him to think on that. It would take a great deal for him to abandon Boris, but I had to believe it was possible._

_As much as it pained me, David's sentence had already been passed. It was George's neck that needed saving. A Boris premiership might just have been the key to survival, but I wouldn't have that man in No. 10. Britain deserved better, whatever it voted for. If it meant George and I would be sent packing, so be it._

"Are you alright?" George asks. I come to my senses and nod, far too quickly.

"I suppose I'm just a little out of it" I lie.

"Go back to bed" he encourages. I tighten my grip on his hand and shift closer. More results were appearing on screen, flashes of yellow for Remain popping up only sporadically now.

"No, no" I insist, "I'd rather stay and watch". I was sure of the result, but I still didn't want to leave him.

"Are you frightened?" George asks quietly, resting his head against my own. I clear my throat and feign a smile. I'd have to do that a lot over the next few days. Difficult days lay ahead.

"Absolutely not" I say, as though hoping the words would convince me, "We'll be perfectly fine."

* * *

"UK VOTES TO LEAVE". David Dimbleby rouses me from my sleep with words of great historic importance. The sun was rising on a new day, or something along those lines. It certainly was a new day, and a bloody difficult one too. I feel sick the second I catch sight of the television,

52% to 48%. Seventeen million to sixteen. It was almost an even split. Never had any election drawn such numbers to the ballot box. Even at such an early hour I could sense the country was in new territory. We were staring blankly on a cliff edge, a bitter civil war culminating in total confusion. Where did we go now? What did we do?

I had been just three years old when the nation first joined the institution. Now, at forty-four, we were abandoning the entire thing. I'd seen it coming, of course I'd seen it coming, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment itself. My nausea builds, my head aches and in my chest I feel a sharp needling.

I sit up from where I'd nodded off on the sofa and look about the room. In the background, a kettle boiled. Edith gargles, totally oblivious to what was unfolding around her. George perches on the seat next to my own, barely moving. My eyes wander to the window. Sam stands there, her hands resting on the back of the plump man hiding behind a white net curtain.

Sadness is added to my discomfort. I could tell by the way he stood that he was crying. Not loudly, nor heavily, but definitely crying. The sight prompts tears of my own, but I find the strength to resist them. My cousin and I had many disagreements. He was an irritating prat of a man, and I a proud bitch. But he'd thrown everything he had at this campaign. Twelve months ago, he was being hailed as a hero for sweeping to victory against Ed. What would his legacy be now?

I clench my fists as the temptation to weep grows stronger. A younger, less caring version of myself would no doubt find the sight quite amusing. To think I'd one day fight back tears over David. To think I was so moved by the idea of his reign coming to an end.

"What do we do now?" I ask softly. I have to clear my throat to remove the instability from it. "Release a statement?". George glances across to David, his eyes wide and hopeless.

My cousin sniffs loudly, wiping whatever tears lingered on his cheeks in one fluid movement. He excuses himself and walks from the sitting room with Sam in tow. George's eyes follow him. My heart sinks all the more when I notice the disparity in them. They'd always made quite the couple, a partnership perfect for Nos 10 and 11. _If David goes, George goes_. My own words haunt me now.

"I'm sure David will go out to face the cameras when he's ready" George says, voice barely audible, "But not to deliver a statement."

"Then what?" I ask. George gulps.

"His resignation."

* * *

I'd never seen London so downcast. The atmosphere in Downing Street had been too much for me in the end, and watching David walk out to confront the world's media had done nothing to calm me. And so out into the wilderness I'd wondered, coat buttoned up all the way and scarf concealing half of my face. Not that it really mattered. Many of those I pass seem to absorbed in their own misery to notice who I am.

I wasn't sure where I was going. I'm too focused on my own internal musings to really pay attention. Fresh leadership. That was what David had called for. A leadership election would take place now, with the new prime minister in place by September. We had two months at the most. Two months to take hold of my old London apartment before our inevitable eviction.

I hadn't yet seen Boris. I'd caught footage of him being booed as he left his home on the news an hour or two ago. It wasn't the warm reception he'd anticipated, I'm sure. He didn't deserve cheers or supportive pats on the back. I'm tempted to call Michael Gove and have another conversation with him.

"Good morning, Liz". An old man appears beside me suddenly. I find I'm rather glad to see him. My preferred Michael.

"If only it was a good morning" I sigh. Michael bows his head in sadness. He'd been even more enthused than I these last few days. I'd found his energy rather inspiring, really.

"How fortunes change" he says. Under his arm I see he holds a newspaper, yesterday's copy of The Telegraph. Pictures of Boris and I had been printed on the front. Things had seemed so much better when I stood on that stage in Wembley. So much had changed in the space of twenty-four hours.

"I'm ever so sorry, Liz" Michael says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, as if I were mourning a loved one, "How is George?"

" _Sad_ " I admit, casting my eyes towards the ground as though to console myself with the sight of gravel, "Everything seemed to bright this time last year. Now what do we find ourselves in?"

"Will he resign too?" Michael asks gently. The hours following David's resignation had sparked speculation as to who would replace him. The conversations George and I had had about the subject had always been somewhat jovial. Would it be Boris or Theresa? Aside from my confrontation of Michael Gove, it had all seemed like something of a joke.

Not now.

"No. No, he has too much to deal with" I tell him, "You've seen how the markets have reacted". George kept himself together very well. I knew he was hurting, but he managed to remain composed.

"Still" Michae exhales, rubbing his wrinkled eyes wearily, "On we go". He links arms with me, and on we go. I wasn't entirely sure where it was we'd walk, but I found his company to be most comforting. We say very little, and walk at a reasonable pace, but it doesn't matter. We were both consumed by our own troubled thoughts, but could at least reassure one another our friendship remained intact.

Friendship. Did the country care for friendship? Peter Mandelson's accusations, that I cared only for George's position and not for the damned EU were entirely untrue. I'd considered them at the time, but misery I felt now only dispelled what he said. I wouldn't begrudge the seventeen million who had voted to leave their moment of freedom, but I feared they'd been _duped_. Sold a golden horizon of great prosperity by Boris Johnson and his gaggle of halfwits, racists and liars.

Was I totally proud of my own campaign? No. Could it have been improved upon? Certainly. But I could at least leave this referendum behind knowing that I'd not deceived a nation with a promise printed on the side of a red bus.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. With little expectation I withdraw it. Ah, _Peter_. ' _You still owe me £20_ ' he says. I'd lost a bet for the first time in my life. Unsurprisingly, it isn't the worst of my troubles.

"You'd think Boris would have made more of an effort with these streets when he was Mayor" Michael mumbles to himself, shaking his head at the rubbish dotted about the stone we walked on, " _Fool_ ".

"I don't think it wise to think much of Boris" I grumble. I'd definitely be speaking to Michael Gove again, before the week was through.

My Michael kicks a stray box, perhaps imagining it to be the man himself. What we don't expect is to hear the box emit a small cry in response. We both freeze, before crouching down beside the box and peering inside.

Immediately I pull my scarf from my neck, folding it into a small nest. It wasn't too cold a day, but the small ball of fluff I find shivering in the abandoned box is clearly in need of warmth.

"A lost pet?" Michael wonders, watching curiously as I gently scoop the kitten into my scarf and stand up again. The animal moves very little, but seems more afraid than pained. "Possibly" I agree, cradling it gently, "Or a stray's offspring."

"What shall we do with it?" Michael asks, carefully pushing the kitten's dirty fur from its eyes. Alex's cat, Spock, had made me like the creatures.

"Well we can't just leave it."

* * *

"They've kicked me out". Yet more misfortune is piled upon Alex. I'd hoped he would have had a little more to smile about, now that Isaac was back by his side. I can see the young man in question, or at least the side of his face, on the edge of my laptop screen.

"What do you mean they've kicked you out?" I ask. I try not to be distracted by the quiet pawing against the considerably cleaner box resting on the couch beside me. The abandoned kitten had no owners, nor no apparent family, and so I'd agreed to look after her. After a good wash and a check over, she seemed to have calmed down quite a bit.

"The party have suspended me" Alex informs me, resting his head in his hands, "Today of all days."

"On what grounds?" I ask. There had been rumours that he'd be chucked for punching William Lewis. With Brexit now a reality, I suspected party officials thought they had a decent cover.

" _Inappropriate conduct_ " Alex reads, before turning a letter towards the screen. I squint at it. I'd consider asking David to do something, but his authority was rather undermined now.

"For how long will your suspension last?" I quiz. I was sorry party troubles were something we had in common.

"Three months" Alex says, rubbing his eyes. What a good time to be in the Nelson-Cameron clan.

"When your new leader is in place, perhaps?" I wonder, painfully reminded of the speech David had delivered earlier, "Provided the contest goes to plan". Alex buries his head further into his palms. I was sure he'd scream had he not been talking to me. I see Isaac place a hand on his back and smile.

He did at least give me an idea as to what I could do with the kitten.

"Have you seen how Labour are doing?" Alex says, trying to smile.

"A predictable implosion" I reply with the shake of my head. It was wise of me to jump ship when I did. The party were a mess now, with rumours of a vote of no confidence in Corbyn bubbling up all too readily.

"Christ, this is such a mess" I add dismally. I see Alex look up suddenly.

"Mother, what was it you said about the leadership discussion you'd had with George? About his chances with Boris in charge?" he blurts, catching me by surprise.

"Well, I said I could imagine him staying on in government should Boris become leader" I answer, resisting the urge to vomit at the thought of Boris getting any where near Downing Street. "He's not entirely chuffed with Boris at the moment, though. And he seems to think he'd stand a chance with Mrs May."

"So there's little risk should I back her candidacy?" Alex questions. His suspension had offered him a lifeline, but it seemed he was content to ignore it. He could wait for the entire affair to pass and not have a scratch on him. Yet now I see him already bearing his claws.

"I don't know, darling" I admit, "I'm not so convinced, in all honesty. I can't see May wanting him around". I glance over my shoulder. George had returned to the apartment without a word, retreating into the bedroom to have a well-needed nap.

"Boris would most likely keep him on. Perhaps not here, but in another department" I continue, confident he was out of earshot, "But Boris cannot be prime minister. He cannot win this contest". I'm reminded of the irritating smile he'd sported at Wembley and wince.

"Everything he's done these past few months have been with Downing Street in mind. I'll do anything I can to keep him away, even if it means we are thrown out."

Alex nods slowly. It was a tough choice. Whilst the ink on David's resignation was still fresh, and the candidates not yet announced, Boris and May would almost certainly emerge as the front-runners. It was at moments like this that I was glad not to be a Tory. _The populist liar or the dispassionate robot_?

"It would depress me greatly to see George sacked" Alex says, heart sinking at the same rate as my own, "But if it keeps Boris out, so be it."

I glance around the apartment. Just as I was beginning to get used to the decor.

"What do we do now?" Alex asks helplessly, "I can do very little now I'm suspended". I shake away my sadness and think hard. Tears and moping would achieve nothing. I had to clear my head and move on.

" _You_ can do very little" I ponder aloud.

"What are you planning?". Alex narrows his eyes at me.

I'd been much criticised by opponents for my interference in the press. My work with Peter in my government days had earned me the name Mrs Machiavelli. Without a seat and with a career in business looming, my time in front-line politics was drawing to a close. _Why not try to achieve a little more in my dying days_?

"Have you got the phone number of Michael Gove?"


	128. Mrs May.

**11th July, 2016.**

**House of Lords, London.**

My office door is slammed open. Mobile phone in hand, Alex swoops in, spectacles almost flying from his face. Not since his encounter with William Lewis had I seen him so animated. "She's standing aside" he cries.

"The Queen?" I ask, glancing at him from my desk with a suitably puzzled expression. Quite a bit had gone on these past few weeks. It was easy to lose one's head.

"Andrea Leadsom" Alex corrects, his eyes gleaming ever so slightly. How he would delight in her demise. Leadsom had not had the best of starts. The Brexiteer version of Theresa May, one might say, only considerably less intelligent. A few blunders had undermined her campaign of late, and now it seemed she'd given up entirely.

"That's it" Alex says, not bothering to lower his volume despite the fact he stood in the same room as I, "May is the only one left."

Oh.

It was odd, really, the way this leadership election had turned out. Rather like those Hunger Games stories Alex was so fascinated by, each contender had been picked off one by one. May was this year's victor.

Boris hadn't actually stood in the end, amusingly stabbed in the back by Michael Gove. Something had changed Gove's mind about leadership, and so in the knife was plunged. Not that I had anything to do with it.

"That'll cut David's plans a little short" I say, "He thought he had until September". I didn't know when the Tories intended to hold May's coronation, but I imagined she'd take her place in Downing Street before the weeks was through. The mere idea of packing at such short noticed stressed me. No doubt David would seek to recruit me in his packing efforts.

"It feels odd" Alex tells me, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular, "We'll have a new prime minister soon". Odd and a little sad.

"What of you?" he adds suddenly, springing to life again, "What will happen?". I knew precisely what would happen, and Alex himself had a fair idea. On the topic of packing, perhaps it would be wise of me to seek out a few spare boxes?

"We shall have to wait and see" I lie.

"I don't suppose May would want to restore my membership" Alex mutters. His glee at the demise of Leadsom was counteracted by his dismal realisation that Theresa May would now be his leader. I suspected he was relieved not to have to vote for either of them.

"I don't think our family ranks high in her priorities" I sigh, rubbing my increasingly sore temple. _How would George react? Did he still think he stood a chance?_

"Speaking of the family" Alex says, shutting my office door behind him and sinking into the chair opposite, "How are you finding estate management?".

I'd failed to convince the country to remain in the EU, but I had at least got a hold on the family finances.

"We're no longer in debt. Bits of the estate have been sold off, so we don't have to pay to maintain it all" I tell him, actually pleased with my work for a change.

"But you've had no further thought about that business chairmanship?" Alex questions.

"No. Events have overtaken me" I confess, "Priorities, darling, _priorities_ ". Alex shrugs.

"Let's pray George isn't as done for as we fear he is" he says with a shake of his head. It was a most sorry state of affairs. One could get quite depressed. Alex does look up, however, when he hears a small meow.

"What was that?" he asks, ears practically pricking up. I play dumb.

"What was what?" I frown, spying the box hidden behind my desk from the corner of my eye. Alex hesitates for another moment or two, before getting to his feet and making for the door again.

"Still, I ought to be getting on" he says, sighing heavily, "I shall offer my congratulations to Mrs May". He'd offer them begrudgingly. The choice before him had not been an envious one. I'd gladly abstain from choosing, with Boris safely defeated.

Once Alex leaves, I turn to the box resting near the base of my chair. A small ball of well-washed fluff moves about in it, content and obvious to the turmoil around her. I lift her out once I'm confident my son won't emerge again.

I had kept her a secret these past few weeks, intending to give her as a present to Alex when he was in a brighter mood. I now wondered whether the kitten would be a decent remedy for his stress. There were plenty more Star Trek characters after which he could name this one.

"What are we going to do then, eh?" I ask quietly, craving a stiff drink, "What a _mess_ ". My phone buzzes on my desk. _David_. No doubt he'd been one of the first to know of May's victory. Despite saying he'd stay entirely out of the leadership contest, I knew for a fact that he disliked Leadsom. Though whilst he certainly respected May, she did not seem to be _his_ kind of Conservative.

A knock on my door prompts me to gently lower the kitten down into her box again. "Come in" I call. An old ally I the form of Chuka Umunna presents himself.

"We need your help" he requests.

"With what?" I respond. Chuka appeared to be as fed up as Alex.

"A fight seems to be unfolding a few doors down" he informs me, exasperated, "I've an awful feeling it might escalate."

"Oh Lord, has Ken Livingstone mentioned Hitler again?" I groan.

"Not this time."

"So nothing urgent, then?"

"One of Corbyn's lot is arguing with Angela Eagle, and I think I saw Tom Watson rolling his sleeves up". I glance down at the kitten, cute and oblivious in its cosy little box. _Shall we swap?_

"I'm on my way."

* * *

"You're not packing already?". I did not expect to find David surrounded by boxes so soon. May had been crowned his successor, he had emerged from Downing Street to congratulate her and had then casually strolled back inside humming to himself. I suspected he was rather relieved to be free of it all so soon, the prospect of a long and bruising contest averted.

"I intend to make way for Theresa on Wednesday" David says, kneeling down to empty a nearby cupboard in his sitting room, "I thought I'd start packing up before Sam can throw my things away". He pulls out an old photo album and blows the dust from it. "Get onto that biographer friend of yours" he speaks gleefully, "There's bound to be something interesting in here."

"There are enough embarrassing photos in that book, thank you" I warn. I still find myself intrigued, and join David on the couch as he opens the album and flicks through its pages.

"Dear, _God_ ". I urge David to move on from a photo of myself from the early 80s, red hair resembling a particularly messy bush, dancing. He resists and chuckles at it for a minute or two. I smirk when the next photo reveals him, a university student, looking a drugged-up fool with a flowery headband wrapped around his head.

" _Oh no_ " we complain in unison. We stumble upon a photo we had both attempted to push from our minds from the moment it was taken. 1993, amid a particularly glitzy party on a trip to Chicago, and a drunk and nauseous David stands giddily beside Jimmy Carter. I stand at Carter's other side, face frozen forever in horror as heard the sudden rip of my dress from behind. We both looked slightly demented. It was terribly embarrassing, especially considering neither of us had been given the chance to try again with Jimmy Carter.

"This one is much better" David smiles, tapping on a nicer photo of the two of us beaming up at the camera whilst attempting to bake in my mother's kitchen together. I actually found it incredibly sweet.

"We can get on when we want to" David comments. I nod. I wasn't sure I'd try baking with him now, though.

"I've never _really_ hated you" I poke, "Strongly disliked, perhaps, but never _hated_ ". My cousin smiles softly. There was little point in provoking him now.

"You may even find you'll miss me" David pushes with a grin. Of course I roll my eyes.

"You're not going any where" I remember, "Not for me". He divided his time between London and Oxfordshire just as I did. I imagined we would spend more time together after Wednesday than we had done before my move into Downing Street. "I'm not a _terrible_ neighbour" David says.

"I shan't miss the occasional arguing" I nod, "But I must admit I've become rather used to seeing you on a daily basis". David stares at me long and hard. His smile grows smaller, and I'm sure I can see his eyes begin to water. An emotional moment would never have been possible thirty years ago.

"Am I your favourite cousin now?" David grins, any feigned sadness in his eyes replaced by mischief. I slap him on the arm. No, an emotional moment still wasn't possible.

"At this present moment, you're my least favourite."

* * *

 _Tuesday 12th. One day to go_. I'd ignored the news for much of the evening on Monday. George hadn't seemed so buoyant as he watched it, either. He'd barely eaten, barely spoken to Edith, barely laughed when I suggested we pinch a few of David's things while he packed to see if he'd notice their absence.

He'd risen early and left early, and now gathered with his colleagues for David's final cabinet meeting. May would be there. I wasn't sure how George would address her, how he'd behave around her. Genuinely glad of her victory, or deeply sorry to see her replace David? Congratulatory or bitter?

I'd check on him later. For now, my priority was the less depressing Emily, refreshingly cheerful and upbeat as she enters Downing Street for another visit. The weather was not quite so bright, however, so I feared we would have to remain inside and risk a repeat of her last visit. She isn't disappointed when she spies the small ball of fluff in my hands, however.

"Where did she come from?" Emily coos, gently scooping the kitten up into her arms. I lead her away from the back and towards the door to No. 11. "Michael and I found her on the street. She had no owner" I tell my daughter, "I thought she'd be a perfect present for Alex."

"She's so sweet" Emily beams, voice suddenly squeaky. I wondered whether I ought to stumble upon an abandoned kitten for Emily too. She'd recovered remarkably these past few weeks. She'd managed to get through her GCSEs without losing her smile.

"Oh, _God_ ". At the far end of the corridor I spy the unmistakable round figure of a man with disastrous blonde hair. He ruffles it with an impatient hand, his other hand clutching a bicycle helmet beneath his arm. _Boris_.

"What is he doing here?" I ask, signalling to a passing press officer.

"He has an appointment with the PM" the young man informs me, looking Boris up and down with obvious suspicion, "He's fifteen minutes early."

"Trying to get a look while he can, no doubt" I grumble. The press officer gives me a knowing look and scuttles away. I look back to Emily. She still held the kitten, but her smile was dampened somewhat now. From the corner of my eye I spy Boris. "Come along now" I say loudly, "Let's take a different route."

"Do you not want to speak to Boris, Mother?" Emily asks innocently, following me along what was admittedly a longer path.

"I want to speak to _you_ " I smile. I'd not speak to Boris for quite some time. A year? Two? How long would it take to forgive him, even if he had refused to stand in the end?

"Ouch". A gasp from Emily catches my attention. I turn around sharply, and find her rubbing her right palm. "She can scratch quite fiercely already" she says, laughing lightly. I feel my brows furrow.

"Where is she?" I realise. Emily and I look to the ground instinctively. And then about the corridor. And then in the empty meeting rooms open nearby. "I dropped her" Emily tells me, scratching her head thoughtfully. It wasn't relevant to our cat hunt, but I thought her composure a great testimony to her recovery.

"There!" she cries suddenly, pointing to another door, left ever so slightly ajar, "I saw her!". _How can a kitten be this quick_.

I hesitate. Beyond the door was an office of sorts, for David's permanent secretary. Beyond that were two larger doors that opened out into the Cabinet room. _For goodness sake_.

Telling Emily to wait outside, I step through into the office. Deserted. I give a sigh of relief and immediately begin to search the space. No scuttling ball of fluff presents itself, and so I'm forced to kneel down and check under the permanent's secretaries desk. I hear my dignity struggling for breath when the door to the Cabinet room opens behind me.

"Lady Nelson?" a most puzzled permanent secretary asks, peering down at me with a suitable confused expression. I get up and brush my skirt down, attempting in vein to look casual. Just before the man closes the Cabinet room door behind him, I spy a flurry of fur slip through. I'd have thought it was a mouse had it not been so fluffy. _That damn cat_. My day was gradually progressing into something best suited for an average 80s sitcom.

"Oh, I-" I struggle, considering my options at lightning speed. Could I text George and ask him to catch the damn thing? I wouldn't have David's last Cabinet meeting be ruined by something so silly. Besides, I respected myself too much. I wouldn't embarrass myself by sneaking into the Cabinet room for a cat.

A minute later, and I am embarrassing myself by sneaking into the Cabinet room for a cat. The permanent secretary had kindly given me a degree of cover, and the room was long enough for there to be decent corners to hide in. David captured his ministers' interests with final business. I spy George sitting opposite him, visibly tired but paying attention all the same.

Silently, I crouch down. No kitten. I tip toe further to the table. Still no kitten. I start slightly when I spot another ball of fur emerge from behind a nearby pot plant. I glance about the floor of the room once more and feel my dignity die just a little be more. _It was a fucking mouse._

"Liz?". A painfully familiar voice catches me off guard. I steady myself and resume my full height. There was little point in hiding now, and so the entire Cabinet I am announced. _I will kill that kitten._

" _Sorry_ " I attempt, resisting the urge to crumble beneath the bemused looks of the nation's leaders. George has to bite his lip in an effort not to laugh. I'm glad someone found my pain funny. "Liz, are you alright?" David asks, shifting around in his chair.

_So much for not ruining his final meeting._

"Oh, I'm fine" I answer simply. There is a pause.

"Is there any reason why you're here?" David presses, a flicker of amusement growing in his own eyes now.

"I lost an earring" I lie. Many around the Cabinet table seem to relax now, but the sharper members look more confused than ever. "In here?" David goes on, "You lost an earring _here_?". _I would definitely kill that kitten._

"I like to sit in here sometimes" I defend. A little more of me dies. I like to sit in here. I couldn't have sounded any more psychotic if I tried.

"For any particular reason?" David ponders. I knew for a fact he didn't believe me. Alarmingly, a number of his colleagues did.

"To remember the old times. You know, back when we had a good prime minister" I say cheekily. David narrows his eyes at me, but I now see some of his nearest colleagues looking down at their notes to conceal their amusement.

"I'll recreate the signing off of the Iraq dossier later" I add, slowly backing away towards the door again, "Carry on". I catch George resting his head in his palms before I slip away.

" _Fucking hell_ " I breathe, practically slumping against the door. _How in Hell?_

Before me stands the permanent secretary, gently stroking the fur of an irritatingly sweet kitten, held safely by Emily. "We found her" my daughter smiles, "It must have been a mouse we saw". George would not let me forget it. David would not let me forget it. _The new prime minister of Great Britain would not let me forget it._

"Clearly" I sigh.

I hated that kitten.

* * *

"She's really very nice. I can't _imagine_ why you dislike her so". George pets the little Devil on his lap, adoring the creature all the more now he knew how much bother she had caused. I change in the neighbouring room, tired after a day of dodging home removals men and little else. I trade my heels for a pair of slippers and my skirt and blouse for some rather cosy pyjamas. I deserved it if it was to be my final night in Downing Street.

Emily had distracted me from that. I retained a glimmer of optimism, that we would somehow cling on, but I knew how unlikely it was. The Camerons would have a great deal more time to pack than we would.

"Must you wear that?" George asks, scowling a the t-shirt I had randomly pulled out. _Vote Remain_  it said, a reminder to back us on June 23rd at its back.

"I'm pretending the referendum hasn't happened yet" I say, calmly picking the kitten up and placing her down on the nice little bed I'd fixed up for her. Perhaps I didn't hate her _that_ much.

I brush aside the baby monitor, necessary now we'd moved the considerably quieter Edith into the next room, left on the couch and sink down into several cushions. "Maybe you were always right about the EU, you know" George says distractedly.

"Don't do this, George" I warn, wary of inducing yet another bad mood. He had perked up somewhat over the last few hours. _So long as his renewed happiness was not solely the result of the morning's kitten incident._

"No, no. You're right" he says, "It's done."

" _Brexit means Brexit_ , remember" I joke. I'd taken to mocking that mantra to conceal my genuine hatred for it.

" _Take Back Control_ " George chimes.

" _We don't need you cheese-eating surrender monkeys anyway._ "

I huddle closer, grateful for the warmth. I certainly wouldn't miss Downing Street's poor central heating. "You know, now I come to think of it" George says, "That t-shirt does fit rather well". I feel him trace the June 23rd at the back idly.

"I'm glad you approve" I reply, "I shall keep it on, then."

"Well, I didn't say _that-_ "

"No, no" I interject, "It's part of my new Europhile persona". It felt good to joke on a night like this. I wasn't sure how happy either of us would be twenty-fours hours.

"I'm not sure how attractive such a persona would be" George remarks. If it annoyed Nigel Farage, I'd adopt it.

"You never know. You might find you like it" I joke, " _I'll be democracy, you be Jean-Claude Juncker"_. I was an adult. I was allowed to make terrible jokes.

"I don't know how events will unfold tomorrow" George says, "But I'm rather glad I don't have to face them alone."

"Hush now, don't get soppy" I say, slapping him gently on the forearm, "I just made a sex joke involving Jean-Claude Juncker". George shakes his head, no doubt questioning in his own mind why he married me.

"So that's why Nigel Farage hates you."

* * *

Considering I'd had no alcohol, I had a most bizarre dream. It was not one single fantasy, but a string of memories, seen from a different angle. I was a spectator to my own recollections.

A kind man with large spectacles and little hair looks down at me, extending a hand. "John Smith" he introduces. The young girl he addresses beholds him with wide eyes, full of wonder and adoration. "Elizabeth Nelson" she struggles. It would be obvious to any curious passer-by that the girl had met her idol. She was intimidated by her hectic surroundings, and the absence of her aunt who had scuttled away in search of a seat, but with him she felt entirely safe.

The scene changes, and a slightly older Elizabeth is the one initiating the introduction. The somewhat awkward-looking boy she speaks to drops his hands firmly at his sides the moment their handshake is over. There was little age difference between them, something the plump balding man to her right does not miss. "Go and talk about whatever it is you teenagers talk of these days" he urges, ushering them away so that he could turn to the simply _riveting_ subject of stocks. The awkward boy with the dark curls stiffens all the more, shy in the company of an abject stranger. He makes no attempt to leave, though. Too cocky for nerves, the younger Elizabeth pushes the loose discomfort of the red dress she wears from her mind and talks to him.

I'm offered only a glance at another setting. Taller by a matter of inches, Elizabeth fixes the gift she had just rolled her eyes at about her neck. "I won't be able to afford to eat, now" George says, most proud of his choice, "But I don't mind". The girl is deeply flattered, and already greatly attached to the locket he had given her, but won't confess it. "You might lose weight" she jokes. George laughs into his pint.

"I shall take it back if you take that attitude" he warns. He never would. She wouldn't let him. I wonder if she knew then just how long she'd wear it?

A first day in the halls of Oxford University, a meeting involving the selection of a particularly young Labour candidate, weeks spent talking to everyone and anyone with a red rosette pinned proudly to her chest. These things fly by me, and before I know it I am walking into a very familiar town hall.

"I hereby declare that Elizabeth Nelson is duly elected the Member of Parliament for Henley". Gasps, shouts, cheers. They all rise up. I was sure I heard a loud thud. The visibly shaken victor glances towards her blue rival, wondering whether he had fainted. She was close to such a thing. "Bloody hell" was not the most inspiring start to an acceptance speech.

Various images of a stuffy chamber of green leather and crumbling corridors flash before me. The warm hugs and great encouragement of John, the grumbles of Gordon, the sly advice of Peter, the evenings spent smoking with Charles on the terrace outside. The near-Cheshire Cat grin of Tony. There are glares and harsh gestures too, the embittered old folk of the blue side. They'd jeer and interrupt at every given opportunity, only to be slapped down by the young woman they so keenly vilified. The same old men were more than happy to attempt to chat her up in the bar afterwards, of course, and were most offended when she told them to, in no uncertain terms, _fuck off_.

I feel my chest tighten. The kind man no longer smiled, and his large spectacles were set aside on a very sterile bedside table. I stand close to the wall, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle my own sadness. She wouldn't see me, but I felt like something of an intruder standing so near. She looked _lost_. John was dead. _Who would guide her now?_ No one. I often wondered how my life would have panned out had John survived.

I'm not allowed to dwell on him too long, as I soon find myself presented with his successor. Grin as wide as could be, Tony strolls out with a matured young woman by his side. _Blair's bit of skirt_ , one of the papers had said, for it was entirely impossible for a female so young to get by with talent alone. Tony himself was oblivious to it. Her age was irrelevant to him. What made him most happy was the fact that his walk with her on that day had taken her away from a pre-scheduled meeting with Gordon. The Elizabeth of that year was not entirely conscious of the reasons why they were both _overly_ pleasant on occasion.

1994, Blackpool. I look away as the dark haired boy returns and sits at a table with a somewhat lonely Elizabeth, happily chatting over a bottle of wine. I wondered what would have happened had I tapped her on the shoulder and told her not to walk back to her hotel room with him. I wouldn't have Alex. I couldn't have that. That was a reality I did not want to think of.

Nine months pass and I see myself in a great deal of pain. My mother offers me comforting words, but the sweat-drenched Elizabeth I observe can only reply with curses. It would be worth it, of course, but after so many hours of hell such language seemed justifiable.

I find myself submerged in coloured light, and an unmistakable tune bubbles up around me. A party, in which jubilant party members and MPs danced their fatigue away. _Things Can Only Get Better_ , they belted. Elizabeth enjoys herself just as much as anyone, though I spot the tiniest hint of irritation flickering in her eyes. I'd always hated _Things Can Only Get Better_ , but knew all the words anyway.

' _Lady in Red_ '. I see myself twirled about a much grander setting by the President of the United States. He was surprisingly graceful, not once tripping on the hem of the rather lovely, and closely fitted, red dress his partner wore. I knew Bush to be harmless enough. She had gone in on the arm of Donald Rumsfeld, her eager Defence partner amid the chaos that had become Iraq, but been handed over to the President after accidentally revealing that she could in fact dance. The tabloids would love it, a flash of red as the President waltzed with Blair's favourite, a silly young thing who knew her shoes better than she knew her army. ' _Lady in Red_.'

I am allowed mere glimpses of Iraq. Heated conversations with Dr David Kelly, hours spent in the Commons defending information and increasingly stressed Elizabeth knew to be fabricated, trips to the country itself to check on the troops. She could take her bulletproof vest off and disappear in a helicopter at the end of the day. The men and women she attempted to spur on couldn't. I see a meeting with a lovely couple named Campion, too. They wanted to know where their son had gone. I knew, but never told them.

I force myself to look when I see the same couple hunched over in grief, a finely polished coffin carried past them.

Headaches, arguments, whisky drunk far too quickly. Divorce papers filled in and sent off. A finger free of the worn ring that had never really fit. The locket had not yet dulled, of course.

Tony leaves, Gordon arrives. Downing Street becomes my den, and with Peter I seek to keep things in order. The Elizabeth, this Mrs Machiavelli as the press called her, was far more vulnerable than she appeared. She missed Lionel, in a way, but would not admit it. There was only so much time she could spend with the dark eyed man, now without his old curls, sat on the green bench opposite. And so she seeks to amuse herself casually, against every teaching she had ever been offered by the Scottish priests who taught her.

We ride high, and then we fall. Banks crash, jobs disappear, money seemingly vanishes. There are curses and insults from constituents, desperate after having their homes repossessed. A visibly tired Elizabeth soldiers on, hardened. Peter praises himself for teaching her well, but Elizabeth resents her own harshness.

Defeat, resignation, the bright white smile of David as he waves to the world's press on the steps of Downing Street. I listen to Charles' complaints about this newly affirmed marriage between blue and orange over a particularly large whisky.

Ed emerges an unlikely winner, and suddenly I feel my heart sink. Many cheer and clap, and indeed the version of myself I see does applaud with them. Yet there is undeniable scepticism about her. She loved Ed dearly, but had never once imagined him in Downing Street.

Alienation, demotion, animosity. I pray that I wake up when my memories begin to sour. I am forced to relive the growing resentment between myself and Ed, friendship disregarded for the sake of being _right_.

A pride parade with a charming Scot named Ruth appears as one of the few light spots in a sky of grey clouds.

2013\. _What a ghastly year_. William Lewis, the continued threat of the Campion girl, a home broken into. The look of loathing and betrayal in Alex's eyes as he realises the truth. The same look in the eyes of George as he too discovers me to be a liar. I gulp as I watch a now exhausted Elizabeth collapse into the arms of Nevin, having been abandoned by everyone else. There is a crash and a painfully loud bang.

Ian is gone. I never see him again after that night. My own little brother, and we'd parted in bitterness.

Syria rears its ugly head, and I see myself effectively forced from the front bench for disagreeing once more with Ed. She asks for her dignity, and so her resignation is handed in that night. The next day, events and emotions get the better of me. My heart gives up, and so towards death I slip.

I shut my eyes and curl up into a ball as I'm forced to sit in darkness. My mind goes blank. There are no memories here. Nothing. The odd faint echo, perhaps, but otherwise a void.

When the light returns, I pray I'm back at home, safe and cosy after a rather troubling dream. But my mind rambles on.

 _2014_. I see an Elizabeth who is alive but also somehow dead. She trudges along to Parliament, desperate for a change of scenery and a decent distraction. Her old allies come to her aid, and the prospect of an independence referendum in Scotland is enough to get her going again.

I think about jumping into my imagined Thames as I see myself chatting casually with Charles on the terrace outside parliament. To the bar he disappears to fetch me a drink, and the Elizabeth of two years ago meanders across to the waters edge. From the shadows George appears, pensive. I wouldn't regret what happened next, as it led to our reunion, but I felt ever so uncomfortable to be reliving it. I see myself startled, confused, torn, the golden locket I wear about my chest shining brighter than ever before.

 _Copenhagen_. Empty champagne flutes and a hotel packed full of billionaires. Heavy curtains shutting out a beautiful city, thick walls stifling ragged breathing, ecstasy without the commitment, a discarded blue tie. There are meetings in the morning, and less than enthralling discussions about globalisation. When evening arrives, the champagne flutes return and so the night repeats itself.

John Smith's grave, the words 'Scotland votes No', a rather beautiful cat named Spock purring contentedly as I talk to George, a thousand images and colours and sounds from the weeks and months that lead me to this day. Alex addressing his voters, the ice of Charles' skin as he lay still in my arms, a pleasant blizzard of confetti as I emerge from a church, Edith, the roar of a campaign rally in New Hampshire, the stress of Panama, Emily lying still, Brexit. I almost miss them as I blink.

And then I'm back. I sit up sharply in bed and reach up to feel my forehead. _Cold_. I glance at the clock resting on the small table beside me. _1:37_. I'd nodded off just fifteen minutes ago. A gentle snore to my right told me that George had not suffered from the same set of bizarre recollections.

I didn't want to sleep now. What if I was forced to see it all again? The good and the bad? I had a tough day ahead of me, should my fears be realised, but I'd have to make do without a satisfying rest.

Had this all been brought on by those fears? Was I stressed? Had I managed to spike my own dinner? Or was this a sign of sorts, an indicator that the saga that had been the last few decades was coming to an end?

I didn't want to think of it too much. And so I slip the _Vote Remain_ t-shirt on again and tiptoe to the sitting room.

* * *

Edith was unusually restless. I'd tried all I could to calm her, but nothing seemed to work. I'd held her as I watched David, flanked by his family, step out of No. 10 for the last time. I'd insisted on hugging him again before he left. "You weren't a completely useless Prime Minister" I'd said, wishing I wasn't quite so tearful. George had done a better job of composing himself than I. Sam and I had looked to one another most sadly when the two had embraced. They had to ruin it by mocking me for my tears, of course.

I hoped the windows of Downing Street were well glazed. A woman clad in black was making her way towards the door now, and I wouldn't want her first address as Prime Minister ruined by the sound of a crying baby. Perhaps that's why she wanted George gone.

George himself was quiet. Watching David depart had silenced him, and for the last hour or so he'd sat drumming his fingers on the couch and changing his tie. "Dressing to impress?" I'd joke. There was little humour in the situation, though. Nerves were biting now. He'd been optimistic until now. I saw a growing vulnerability in him that I had not before witnessed.

"Do stop pacing, George" I sigh, "You'll wear the floorboards out. That would be unfair to leave to the new-". I stop myself. George pretends he hasn't heard me.

"It looks as though she's walking inside now" I comment, peering through the net curtains to see May proudly striding towards the famous black door with her husband in tow, a thousand flashes of white appearing and dying away in front of her.

"I'll go down at greet her" George announces, getting to his feet and checking his tie once more in the mirror, "No doubt she'll want to speak to me, to-". His voice trails off, and for several seconds he seems to freeze. Edith scrunches her face up as though to cry again, but stops herself. _One of us had to demonstrate some self-restraint_.

"I'll see you in a minute or two" George says. I knew he wouldn't get such a short audience. May was efficient, but I suspected there would be one or two things she needed to say before George was released from her grip.

"I'm coming with you" I decide. George frowns.

"Liz, there's no need" he insists, his voice following me as I set Edith down in her crib just a little along the corridor, "I'll face her alone". _Face her. He knew what was coming._ My imagination, still sore from the nightmare of memories conjured up earlier in the day, runs wild. Vivid, painful images of George's dismissal present themselves to me, all as brutal as each other.

"Nonsense" I say, putting on as brace a face as I can muster, seizing his hand and holding it tightly in my own, "We'll welcome them _together_ ". George doesn't put up much of a fight, and so together we walk down. The descent feels longer than it usually does. I'm almost out of breath by the time I reach the ground floor.

Civil servants scurry away as we approach. The Prime Minister and her husband smile. "Theresa, welcome" George greets, extending his hand. She shakes it politely. I immediately got the sense she was most keen to get talking to George. She senses an opportunity when I introduce myself to Philip.

"Say, might I have a word with you?" May invites, "You don't mind, do you?". She looks to me.

"No, no. Steal him, by all means" I nod, "Philip, would you care for a tour?". The man nods enthusiastically. He seemed pleasant enough. I wondered whether he knew of his wife's plans for George.

Into a dimly lit room George is led. He looks back to me before he disappears. _Wish me luck_ , his eyes seemed to say. I have to clear my throats before I speak to Philip again. "It's rather impressive this place, isn't it?" he says, adjusting his glasses.

"Yes, yes" I answer, a door being shut firmly behind George, "I think you'll enjoy life here."

"I'm quite looking forward to playing the spouse" Philip smiles as I show him one of No. 10's many staterooms, "Have you any tips to offer me?". _What was going on in that room? It had been some five minutes since George entered it. Was it all over? Was May dragging it out? What sort of executioner would she be?_

"Alas, I never was the model spouse" I sigh, introducing the man to paintings I'd seen a thousand times before, "Refuse to do the cooking and pick up the socks they leave lying around. That's how I operate". Philip laughs, and spends the next five minutes or so babbling on about architecture.

A civil servant takes him from me when we arrive back in the lobby of No. 10. He thanks me warmly for what had been a very quick tour and waves goodbye. He was a very jolly chap, certainly a worthy successor of Sam.

"Mr Osborne returned next door, Lady Nelson" a passing staffer informs me. _They usually referred to him as the Chancellor_. With a heavy heart I make for the intervening door to No. 11, conceivably for the last time.

The new PM calls out to me. "Elizabeth" Mrs May smiles, striding along the lobby as though she was born to the place, "I just wanted to say a heartfelt _thank you_ ". She clasps my hand in her own.

"Whatever for?" I ask.

"For all you've done for our country, for this place" she says, and I find I detest the sincerity of it, "I wish you the very best."

"Likewise" I reply stiffly, before releasing myself from her and making my way up to the apartment. It wasn't ours any more. I glance at my watch. _7:47_. Far too late to make any attempt to get our things together. We couldn't stay here, though. We couldn't.

The apartment is eerily quiet when I enter it. That damned kitten purrs to itself in a corner, and outside I hear only the faint roar of traffic. Edith no longer cries. I find George holding her, absorbed in his own thoughts as he gently cradled her.

"George?" I speak quietly. He doesn't look at me initially, only at Edith.

"I called your sister" he says, tone uneven, "She said we're perfectly welcome to stay with her until we can find somewhere to go". Finally, he makes eye contact with me. He didn't cry, nor did he look angry. Stunned, disappointed, subdued. _What had she said to him?_

George was a creature of incredibly thick skin. To cut through so deeply required a serious and thorough dressing down. Mrs May had been most cheerful in her exchange with me. A different Mrs May had addressed George.

"George?" I speak hoarsely. He clears his throat and looks about the room, taking in each crack in the ceiling and chip of paint.

"Come on" he says, still holding Edith near, "We ought to head off."


	129. Finding a Cause.

**15th July, 2016.**

**A pleasant house in London.**

Helena's home was in need of a good dusting. That was how I'd occupied myself. I'd spent a lifetime shying away from the domestic chores expected of women, but now took up such things voluntary. I'd popped outside only briefly. The press were still very much obsessed with the events of Wednesday 13th. What exactly had been said when May dismissed George from Cabinet? They were about as wise to it as I.

"Liz!". My sister bursts into the sitting room, her face frighteningly pale. "It's Nevin!". I freeze. _Please God no. I don't need this._

"What's happened?" I cry.

"He's gone!" Helena tells me, "Mother just called. He's disappeared to Scotland". I frown. I'd not seen my brother for a week or so. My visits to the family estate were occupied mainly with business these days. Nevin was not as downtrodden as he had been previously, but was not exactly _happy_.

"With Claire and the children?" I hope. I'd have to chase after him myself if he had left his family behind.

"Yes" Helena reassures me, "Mother says he left a note saying he needed a clean break. He hasn't had _great_ success down here". I appreciated he was at a low point, but I would have appreciated some indication that he intended to leave our mother. She'd be a nervous wreck by now.

"You don't think either of us provoked him, do you?" Helena worries.

"I'm far more guilty than you are" I tell her, sinking down into a nearby armchair. I'd annoyed one brother once before. I didn't like to think my takeover of the estate had shut Nevin off from me entirely. Mother would be furious. "I suppose you're head of the family now" my sister realises, doing nothing to ease my mind.

" _Goodness me_ " she exhales, taking the seat opposite, "Will you call him?".

"Later, when things have cooled down a little" I answer.

"Have you something more interesting to do until then?" Helena asks, "I haven't a clue where George got to". He'd woken before I had and not yet returned. I couldn't imagine him going far, given the excitement of the press. I'd tried to talk to him about what had passed on Wednesday, but he seemed unwilling.

"I thought I'd invite Jonathan to tea" I say, silently noticing the way Helena jolts at the mention of his name.

"I thought he'd finished his book?" she asks. He had. Where she'd heard this, I did not know. Unless he had told her himself, away from my company.

"He has. There is just one more thing I feel I ought to talk to him about" I tell my sister. The bizarre whirlwind of memories I'd been forced through in my dreams had not been been pleasant, there was one in particular that needed to be shared for honesty's sake.

"Are you alright, Liz?" my sister asks, watching me with a concerned expression.

"I've never been evicted before. It's a new experience" I joke.

"But _really_?" Helena presses.

"I'm fine, really" I reply, "It's George I worry for."

* * *

Helena disappears to an appointment and conveniently misses the arrival of Jonathan. I hear George come in shortly afterwards, but he disappears upstairs before I can talk to him.

"Not recovered just yet, then?" Jonathan asks. I get the impression he isn't overly sympathetic. To someone outside the family, no doubt it didn't seem worthy of such depression. He'd been sacked from the front bench, not parliament. He'd been forced from one home, but could remain comfortably in another.

"Its something of a shock, for him" I defend, "He needs time to adjust."

"What did she say to him?" Jonathan quizzes, "He looks so _sour_."

"I wish I knew" I sigh, glancing towards the ceiling. I could hear him pacing on the floor above.

" _Still_ " Jonathan says with a shrug, "What is it you wanted to talk to me about?". I set aside my tea cup and saucer and clear my throat. I did feel rather awful for leaving it until now, but I wouldn't be content until he knew.

"I understand you've finished your book" I begin. Jonathan nods enthusiastically, almost spilling his own tea.

"I've a publication date from my publisher" he grins, no longer as unkempt as he often was, "And a serialisation from your friends _The Telegraph_ ". I'd not requested said serialisation, but I was glad Jonathan had it.

"I'm afraid there's something I've neglected to tell you" I say. Jonathan raises an eyebrow. _You have his attention. So tell him._

There is a loud knock on the front door. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and move to open it. "Oh, Alex" I greet, "Do come in". His expression is remarkably similar to that of George.

"Oh, do excuse me" Alex says as he enters the sitting room, "I'll come back later if you-". Instead, Jonathan extends a hand.

"Don't be silly" I insist, encouraging him to take a vacant seat, "This isn't a secret meeting". I freeze slightly when I resume my own seat. I'd managed to momentarily forget what it was I was about to tell Jonathan. _I'd not consulted Alex._

"Your mother was about to tell me a dark secret of hers" Jonathan teases. I gulp.

"Say, Alex, that reminds me" I interject, leaping to my feet once more, "I have something for you". I needed to change the subject while I considered my options. _Could I gently pull him aside and ask him? What if he insisted I didn't tell Jonathan? What ridiculous secret about David would I have to concoct as a substitute?_

I fetch the somewhat troublesome kitten residing in the next room and present it to my son. It was a worthy distraction.

" _Hello_ " Alex coos, all sadness fading from his eyes as he gently takes hold of the kitten, "Who is this?".

"Michael and I rescued her for you" I tell him, remembering well how we had stumbled upon that soggy old box on a London street, "I thought it was time for a new companion". He attempts to hug me whilst also shielding the kitten.

"Primrose" he decides, looking like a young child on Christmas Day.

"A flower" I smile, pleasantly surprised by his choice.

"No, no" Alex corrects, much to the amusement of the onlooking Jonathan, "Primrose Everdeen". I blink hard. There is a moment of silence as Jonathan and I try to work out who Primrose Everdeen was, while Alex quietly gets to know his new friend.

"Say, do you mind if I just make myself a cup of tea?" Alex excuses merrily, practically cradling the kitten.

"Certainly" I say, "Make George one too, would you? He's upstairs". That pacing of his would wear him out. And the floorboards too.

"I do hope I don't miss this dark secret of yours, Mother" Alex says, flashing a grin at Jonathan as he makes for the doorway, "Unless that _dark secret_ is my parentage". I hear him chuckle his way through the hall.

I stay still for a moment longer. I can feel Jonathan's eyes boring into me. Alex had caught me entirely by surprise. _It seemed there was little need for a discussion with him_. When I do manage to turn to Jonathan again, he sports a suitably puzzled expression.

" _Parentage_?" he repeats. I perch on the edge of my seat and search for an appropriate explanation. I watch as Jonathan withdraws a slightly crumpled notebook from his bag and clicks his pen into action.

"This really is something I ought to squeeze in, isn't it?" he says. I nod. And then, clearing my throat, I begin.

" _1994_ " I recall, " _Party conference, Blackpool._ "

* * *

I hear Helena squealing. Through the wooden door of the bathroom I cannot tell whether or not her squeals are ones of happiness or horror. She'd locked herself in the downstairs bathroom some ten minutes ago, and after a series of bizarre exclamations I had politely knocked on the door. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen George emerge from upstairs and disappear into the sitting room. I'd leave him to his thoughts for just a little while longer. Helena was genuinely starting to concern me.

" _Liz_ " she shrieks, the bathroom door swinging open most suddenly. I spy a thin blue object in her left hand. He seemed neither thrilled nor sad, her face eerily pale.

"Whatever is the matter?" I ask. She seems to turn to stone on the spot, her eyes wide and vacant as they stare at me. Upon closer inspection of what it is she holds, I begin to realise.

"Liz" she repeats, "I'm, I'm-". She mouths the word _pregnant_ as though scared God would strike it all away from her should she dare to say it. Before I can react, I am clumsily pulled into a hug. I was sorry I had ever tried to dismiss her personal disappointment at not having children. It was all rather exciting, actually.

"Congratulations" I say, rather strangled by her embrace. The news did beg the question who, of course. I had my suspicions. The main suspect had managed to leave his pen on the coffee table shortly before he left earlier.

"But what if I'm not ready?" Helena blurts suddenly, pulling me back so she can look me in the eye, "What if I'm a terrible mother?". I'm very tempted to roll my eyes. She'd been hankering for a child for so long. Could I blame her for panicking?

"I know you will be a fantastic mother" I tell her earnestly, "Now go and ring our mother before you burst a blood vessel". Helena nods and dashes off, test still in hand.

I find I'm smiling rather widely when I enter the sitting room. George, glass of wine in hand, arches an eyebrow at me. "I do hope you intend to share that" I remark, nodding to the bottle already half-empty.

"I'm _celebrating_ " George replies, attempting a weak smile. No doubt he'd clocked into what had excited Helena so. I shake my head and take the seat next to his own. "Celebrating? Or drowning your sorrows?" I question. George raises his glass to take another sip but quickly lowers it again.

"I do feel rather silly, you know" George says, " _Moping_."

"At lot has happened over the past few weeks, George. No one can blame you being a little subdued" I argue, "Things will seem much better soon, I'm sure". I could imagine a much younger, and less empathetic, version of myself slapping the pity from him.

"I've spent a decade hiring and firing people" George speaks, finally opening up after two days of silence, "And it wasn't exactly a surprise, was it?". He doesn't sip on his wine, but instead offers the glass to me.

"What did she say?" I ask with childish curiosity. I'd not repeat what he said. I'd voluntarily talked of my bad experiences. George ought to be owed the same courtesy. There was certainly a great deal of interest from the press as to what Mrs May had told him that night.

"What any disappointed boss might say, that my services were no longer required" George recalls, a distant look in his eye, "It wasn't just that, either. She told me that I lacked emotional intelligence". I scoff. I thought that somewhat rich coming from a woman as compassionate as malaria.

" _Charming_ " I joke.

" _Get to know the party_ , she said" George continues, " _Get to know the party if ever you want to be Prime Minister_ ". It was curious advice.

"Will you take her advice?". We'd not yet had a chance to wonder what might come next for us. Decisions lay before us both. The chairmanship of a business had been offered to me. What would George do with himself? I couldn't imagine the backbenches amusing him for long, no matter how great his love of the game.

"I don't entirely know what it is I want. With Brexit and all, there's much to be challenged" George responds, refreshingly candid, "And I'm quite keen on keeping the new regime in check". A darkness glints in his eye.

I'd never wanted revenge for my demise. Why should I expect George to be the same?

"It can take time. Initially, you might feel totally dejected. Hollow, perhaps" I seek to comfort him, "But you will find cause again. There's much to say and much to fight for."

"We've been in this game far too long, you and I. We know there's better to be done than moping" I smile, "Even if the wine is _comforting"._ I feel quite relieved when my smile is returned.

"You're right" George states, life bursting through once more, "We've our place in Europe to fight for, the tide of the swivel-eyed lot on the right to hold off". He climbs up from the couch and begins to pace again. I don't complain this time.

"You have a far bigger fight in America to consider. Clinton needs you" he suggests animatedly, "There are other elections. France, Germany."

"I'm a little rusty in both languages" I grin, eyes barely able to keep up with him.

"That chairmanship?" George turns, " _Take it_."

I withdraw my phone almost immediately. I listen to him talk on in the background about the articles he could write and the book he could plan as I type my response to the offer I had received so longer ago. We'd both been given an opportunity to do something different. Why not seize it?

"We can go on holiday" George proposes, still alight with sudden enthusiasm.

"The Carribean?" I think aloud.

" _Vietnam_ " George decides. _Vietnam?_

"You're barmy" I laugh, his happiness infectious. I was content for him to revel in his own renewed confidence, no matter how his pacing might wear Helena's carpet. I did of course begin to wonder how potent his wine was.

A new email appears in my inbox. I tap to open it while George spills further ideas. I was sure I heard the founding of a think tank mentioned.

"Say, would you object to attending a party on Sunday?" I read, "It seems the Duke of Westminster had invited the entire family". No doubt worn out, George resumes his seat beside me and considers the invitation.

"A party where?" he asks. I smile fondly as I read the address provided on the email.

"Fenton House" I tell him. He too smiles now.

"Yes, alright" George nods, "Let's go."

_1988\. We had essentially been forced together. Initial awkwardness had been set aside, and we had managed to find common ground in our shared ambition. He pauses as we pass a door out into the gardens of the Fenton estate._

_"I could do with a breath of fresh air" he says, opening it, "Care to join me?"._

_Behind me I can hear the Duke of Westminster laughing like a drunken pirate, whilst everyone else around me continues to ramble on about things of no importance. I glance back, before looking to George and nodding._

_"Yes" I say, "Why not"._


	130. New Money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been quite the journey.  
> Perhaps remind yourselves of the very first chapter.

**17th July, 2016.**

**Fenton House, London.**

Most sixteen year old girls, I'd told Emily, were attending parties at this time. Nothing like this party, she had argued. I had tried to insist that she wasn't obliged to attend, that her peers would no doubt be dancing freely and singing along to the likes of Queen and David Bowie. Queen and David Bowie, I was told, were not current. Still she came. I wasn't sure why she wished to be stuck here, in a stuffy stately home filled with gentle conversation and the subtle plucking of a string quartet.

Her Aunt Helena had insisted on forcing her into one of her old evening gowns. She was taller shorter and wider than Emily, and so it wasn't exactly a perfect fit. None the less, she was still pleased with herself. It complimented Emily's hair, it had to be said, which now falls to her shoulders in neat brown curls. I had of course tried to rescue the poor girl before she suffocated. Helena believed fastening the dress as tightly as possible would compensate for it being too big. It was sleeveless and sleek. Emily looked most beautiful, and admirably unashamed about bearing the scars on her wrists to all who attended the party. One of her cousins does spring out brandishing a new bottle of perfume, though, choking everyone in the vicinity. The smell would be the greatest cause of intoxication here.

"Are you ready?" I ask my daughter. Alex and Isaac, suitably dapper in white tie, go on ahead, hand in hand. No doubt some older attendees would frown, but neither of them seemed bothered. Emily nods, and so on we go.

The stairs were no longer what bothered me most about Fenton House. True, the banisters remained flimsy, and the slight worry on Emily's face makes me wonder whether she expects it to bend beneath her palm at any moment. And yes, the guests waiting below still stared like hungry sharks. I found their glares had lost their edge. When once they might have intimidated me, they amused me. Only the old order looked on me so disapprovingly, as they always had. Their spite was no longer legal tender. The likes of Emily and Alex were far more interesting, anyway. _New money_.

"Ms Nelson!" the Duke of Westminster cries, taking my hand in his own the moment my feet have left the final stair, "Delightful to see you again. I must say, you are as beautiful as ever". I roll my eyes as he kisses my hand.

"I do admire your tenacity, Gerald" I smile, "How are you daughters?". The balding man, some how thinner than he had been back in 1988, beams.

"In good health" he says, aging eyes turning to Emily, "On the subject of daughters, I don't think we've been introduced". His posture suggests he is about to kiss her hand too, but Emily is sure to keep them held tightly behind her back. It was entirely fair. None of her male counterparts would have to endure the feeling of alcohol-scented saliva on their skin, so why should Emily?

"This must be Emily" the Duke greets, "A most accomplished pianist, I hear". Emily smiles, and I find I'm genuinely impressed by her confidence.

"I do try, Your Grace" she jokes. The man chuckles and hobbles away. Before we submerge ourselves deeply into the party, I lean towards her.

"Are you sure you want to put yourself through another two hours of this?" I ask her quietly.

"Absolutely" my daughter replies.

"You know, there is a grand piano in one of the music rooms to the left of the hall" I inform her. Emily's eyes light up. She doesn't itch at her scars now, but idly traces them.

"Perhaps I'll try and find it" she says.

And so off we go.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, and Emily finds herself playing at said piano, a circle of most captivated spectators around her. I'd opted for the rather typical Moonlight Sonata back in the day. Emily had chosen something considerably more modern, yet also old in today's age. Elvis. After the first few songs, Emily insists I carry on and rejoin the others. Confident she was safe and happy, I make my way out of the music room, the pleasant notes of Can't Help Falling in Love With You behind me.

"Ms Nelson". Noah Freidman steps forward. "I haven't yet had the chance to thank you in person for accepting our offer. You'll make a fine chairman".

" _Chairwoman_ " I correct with a smile. Freidman nods happily. He gestures to his left with a champagne flute in hand.

"Say, if ever you want to expand your role a little, I've a friend at Blackrock" he ponders, sounding slightly drunk, "They're looking for a new advisor. You have a Mathematics degree, don't you?". I steady him when he begins to sway.

"I do" I confirm, "Though I think I ought to focus on my work with you". He nods and takes another sip of his champagne. A man with a neatly trimmed beard clasps him on the shoulder suddenly.

"Noah, do introduce me to your friend" he says, his accent a thick Russian one. Mr Freidman clears his throat and attempts to straighten himself up. "Pardon me, Evgeny" he obliges, "Ms Nelson, this is Evgeny Lebedev". I shake the hand he extends to me. I did hope George and the others had found something to occupy themselves with. It seemed I was in for more than a passing word.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Lebedev" I smile politely.

"Likewise" the Russian says, "I hear great things of you, Ms Nelson. The Telegraph's editor is forever full of praise". To think _Liam from The Telegraph_ , as I insisted on calling him, had been something of enemy at first.

"Have you any great interest in Fleet Street?" I angle, presuming the man before me to be a proprietor of some kind.

"I own a little of it" he informs me proudly, " _The Independent, the Evening Standard_ ". I wasn't hugely interested, but I'm courteous all the same. One had to expect such boasting at parties such as this. I'd hated it in my youth. I tolerated it now.

"I do read the Standard, actually" I smile, "It's quite convenient when I'm on the go". Lebedev appears most pleased.

"You know, my editor plans to leave next year. I'll be searching for a replacement". He looks at me expectantly. I laugh despite myself. Just like that he'd offer me the job. Oh, what it was to be one of Farage's dreaded Westminster elitists.

"I'm afraid you're speaking to the wrong person. I'm occupied elsewhere" I tell him, sensing a chance to escape and seek out the others, "My husband is in search of work, though."

I wish him well and set off, picking up my own glass of champagne as I walk. Many smile and nod to be as I pass them, and I find they make me feel very good indeed. I'd disliked much of the time I'd spent here in 1988. Those I was expected to talk to seemed so unpleasant. I was a cocky upstart who presumed herself to be more intelligent. I was wiser now. I knew better.

"I didn't think I'd find you again" George greets. I tut when I see the state of his bow tie. How he managed it, I did not know. He at least looked less awkward than he had done when first I met him.

"Where's Isaac got to?" I ask Alex, who hangs about nearby. He nods ahead, where I see the curly-haired boy in question in deep conversation with another I recognise to be the Duke of Westminster's son.

"Ditched for a red-head richer than you" i poke, "Ouch". George nudges me, but I can see him smiling in amusement out of the corner of my eye. Alex keeps his eyes fixed on his beau. I wondered whether they'd argued again. He seemed to be toying with something on his mind.

"Cosy". I practically growl when we are joined by unwanted company. William Lewis.

"How is your nose?" Alex snarls.

"About as restored as your party membership" Lewis quips. Alex's hand twitches at his side, but he does nothing, instead lifting his head a little higher and looking away.

"I understand your brother has shot off to Scotland" he smirks, "Force him out of the castl, did you?". No one responds to him.

"I hear this upcoming book of yours is to be explosive" Lewis says, standing irritatingly close, "Perhaps that's why May dumped you, George. She didn't want the scandal". Still ignore him, trying our best to focus elsewhere.

"It's a shame, really. He's so full of promise, your boy" Lewis drawls on, "You've damned him, Liz". I don't flinch. He does manage to provoke George, however. I look on nervously as he turns to my torturer.

"You ought to read the book, you know. It it'll be of great interest" George snaps, "You see, Lewis, my wife is really quite remarkable. True, she's made mistakes, but she can at least tell the son she's _damned_ what she's achieved these past twenty years". Lewis blinks at him.

"And yes, he is my son too" he adds fiercely, "I don't know what exactly he'll do in future, but if he's anything like his mother he'll be brilliant. He won't, unlike you, be a creep with an ego problem dependent on sleaze". Fuck off, in essence. And Lewis does indeed fuck off. Perhaps for good this time. George looks justifiably proud.

I lean up on the tips of my toes to kiss him, not caring if I embarrassed Alex. "I'm fed up of him _bullying_ you. And Alex for that matter" George sighs, "I know he'll never truly go away, but I shan't let him get in our way". With Alex once again keeping his eye on Issac, I lower my voice.

"So have you found a cause?" I ask George.

"I've a few decent ideas. Things will come and go, no doubt" he answers, smiling softly, totally renewed from where he was earlier in the week, "You are my cause".

"Fetch me a bucket, I think I'm about to be sick" I mock. I hold his hand in my own regardless, of course. I wondered what the sixteen year old Elizabeth would have made of us. She would no doubt have tried to tackle Lewis herself, dismissing any male help. Yet I also liked to think her appreciation, and _love_ , George would have developed far sooner.

"You don't feel _damned_ do you, Alex?" I joke. Alex laughs into his glass. I wasn't entirely sure how much he had already drank, but what he says next takes me by surprise slightly.

"I feel like a future prime minister" he says. George smiles, but I arch an eyebrow. _He had definitely had more than one glass_. I hoped his ambition would remain once the alcohol had worn off. As I'd preached to George earlier in the week, there was much to fight for.

"I think there are probably one or two hurdles for you to conquer first, darling" I advise. Alex jerks his head as though reasoning with himself.

"Yes, reversing that suspension of yours, for a start" George agrees. Alex narrows his eyes, once again looking to Isaac. A look of determination passes over him, and before any one can intervene he is pressing his glass into the hand of a nearby guest.

"That" he says, fixing his cufflinks, "And something else". George and I look on in bemusement as Alex marches across to Isaac and taps him on the shoulder. The Duke of Westminster's son appears somewhat offended by the interruption. Isaac is simply confused.

Our bemusement turns to shock, however, when Alex sinks down onto one knee. Others attendees now halt their conversations to watch. Some seem to think it an inconvenience, others entirely engrossed. "Will you marry me?" I hear.

I feel my grip on George's hand tighten. We look at one another, eyes wide. He'd not discussed his intentions with either of us. Had it even been planned? Was he sure there would be no further fall outs?

"Yes" Isaac answers, visibly stunned. An expression of shock turns to one of joy, and to the delight of all who look on the two embrace warmly. Applause seems to spread even to those who hadn't been witness to the event itself.

"Goodness me" I exhale, almost winded.

"Quite" George speaks.

In the distance I can hear the gentle playing of a piano. Still Emily played, amusing herself and many more around her. There was a confidence in her that had not existed a few months ago. She'd grown, and I adored her for it. I can see Alex smiling fondly at his new fiancé, a young man on the cusp of a number of great things. He'd grown too, to an extent that almost made me weep. At home, under the eye a quietly proud Jonathan, Edith slept. Helena would return soon, and then she would be watched over by a perfect pair. She'd have company in nine months.

Nevin had embarked on a new journey of his own. Where his path to Scotland would take him, I did now know, but I prayed regularly that he'd find true purpose at the end of it. I loved my brother dearly. He deserved to be as happy as the rest of us. I wished him well, even if I did miss him.

I missed my father, but I had at least got my mother. Could she nag? Certainly. Would I be lost without her? _Certainly_.

All seemed to be well. I'd reached stages of pure happiness before in my life, only to find them soured by tragedy of one form or another. Would something terrirble happen now? Would this peace be ruined?

I wouldn't dwell on it now. I was happy at present, and that was all that mattered. It had been quite the winding road, but everything seemed to have worked out in the end. I wondered how much of it stemmed from my very first meeting here in Fenton House, with the plucking of the same string quartet and the same laughter of the same Duke in the background.

_"Elizabeth" I say, offering my hand to him. The boy blinks at me, before taking it and giving it a feeble shake. His hands fall to his sides the moment I withdraw my own. "George" he replies, smiling shyly._

I spy a familiar door to my right. It was rather stuffy in the hall we gathered in, and our loved ones did seem to be otherwise engaged. "I could do with a breath of fresh air" George says, "Would you care to join me?". I link arms with him and smile.

"Yes" I say, " _Why not_."

* * *

We stare upwards at a sky dotted with stars. Strands of grey cloud spoil the effect somewhat, as does the odd growling of a taxi on the street beyond the estate. The awkward boy with the dark curls fidgets on the spot, as though searching for something intriguing to say. I'd already decided that I liked him. Would there be any chance of convincing him to see things from my point of view? The only way to tell would be to stick at it.

"Do you mean it?" George asks suddenly, "When you say you don't think me silly?". I'd known him for barely twenty minutes, but I'd assessed his character fairly well. He was decent and clever and _opinionated_. Yes, I would certainly have to stick with it.

"I do mean it" I reassure him, "Why shouldn't you aim to work in politics?". George smiles, resuming his previous confidence.

"I sometimes think it a little far-fetched" he sighs. I didn't know how supportive his parents were of this ambition of his. If they wouldn't fuel it, I certainly would.

"Striving to be a pop star or a princess is far-fetched" I reply, "Wanting to change things for the better is perfectly realistic". George arches an eyebrow at me, sporting a boyish grin I assumed to be typical of him. He was rather good-looking, now that I'd studied him further. Not that he could ever match the Patrick Swayze posters I'd pinned to my walls.

"You're refreshingly mature, you know" George clumsily compliments, "Are you sure you're sixteen and not sixty?". I glance at my hands. No wrinkles as of yet. My hair had been a solid red when I'd walked downstairs.

"Thankfully, I don't quite look sixty" I grin.

"Of course not" George agrees, glancing back to what could be seen of the stars, "You're far too pretty for a sixty year old". I reach up to feel my cheeks. Warm. I shake the sensation away and join him in his beholding of the sky.

"I'm glad I came here now" George comments, more to himself than me.

"Likewise" I admit. I hadn't cornered any of Thatcher's cabinet, but that could remain for another time.

"And if you stick with those ambitions of yours, perhaps I'll meet you again in the _Commons_ " I joke. I'd hope that we saw one another again before that day, should it ever come.

"Do you think so?" George wonders, leaving the stars to look to me. I nod to him and smile. It's neither weak nor feigned, but genuine. Yes, this George fellow certainly was decent. I was surprised by how quickly I'd taken to him. The boys of my college were so dreadful.

"I've a funny feeling we'll see one another quite a bit more in future" I decide, that funny feeling very much present.

"I wonder where we'll be then" I hear George speak, "Can you imagine yourself in twenty years?". I laugh. So long as my hands were wrinkle-free and my red hair without slivers of grey, I would be happy. I knew I'd end up doing something of worth in future. That was another funny feeling I had.

" _Imagine_ " I say, amused by my own visions, "We can be partners". George grows bored of the stars, it seems, though I didn't get the impression he was eager to return inside to the party either. The Duke of Westminster chuckled on, and the dull tune of a string quartet drifted out into the garden. If only they'd play Elvis. I hear George take a step closer. I don't mind. _Maybe we could be partners of some description_.

"I look forward to it" he says.


End file.
